Dangerous Assumptions
by Coragyps
Summary: Sherlock attempts to discover what he wants and needs from John.  Also, keep them both from getting killed.  And also cover up a murder ...
1. Chapter 1

_._

**Dangerous Assumptions**

_Note: The author does not own any aspect of Sherlock and is making no profit from this work of fan-fiction._

A/N: This is a retelling of my previous fic, A Slight Misunderstanding, but told from Sherlock's perspective. They may make more sense if you read them together, although they are both intended to stand on their own. They do not repeat the exact same scenes.

This one starts about a week before the other.

Confused? Everybody with me? Okay, onto the fic!

_._

_._

_-Do u ever think about how ur going 2 die?_

Sherlock scowled at the screen and deleted the text. Sometimes Moriarty's messages gave him hints that were useful in the game, but more often than not lately they were just meaningless threats.

A faint buzz; he glanced down in spite of himself.

_-I do._

_-Ru looking 4ward 2 it?_

Sherlock snorted. What a frightful waste of brain cells that would be - to contemplate his own mortality. Death was nothing to think about, something like shutting off a hose, that was all: one minute a rushing stream of thoughts and perceptions, and the next minute nothing, empty and blank. What was the sense of worrying, when there would be nothing left of the brain capable of conceiving of its demise? He was a consulting detective, not a philosopher.

Also, since both he and presumably Jim had unlimited texting plans, there was really no need for these annoying abbreviations.

Against his better judgment, he typed a quick response - if he never answered, Moriarty would eventually start sulking, and for the next few days the texts would stop.

_-What an absurd question. Of course not. SH_

Sherlock flipped the phone face-down on the table and then immediately found himself waiting for a new message, hoping for something more helpful next time.

There it was.

_-Ull B all alone._

_-Poor Sherlock._

A pause.

_-Ur pet will go first of course._

Another empty threat against John. Moriarty was no closer to killing him than he had been at the pool, and nobody had died there.

_-You're boring me - SH, _he typed back.

He almost switched the phone off, but stood up instead to collect another nicotine patch from under the sink. Once he had applied it, he found himself turning back to the living room; one never knew when Moriarty would throw him a clue to his location, and certainly Sherlock could tolerate some meaningless prattle for that.

But there was no text waiting for him.

"Sherlock?" John came downstairs looking sleep-mussed and rumpled. The state of his hair indicated restlessness; the creases on his shirt and boxers were evidence that he had been sitting up for some time. "Are you still awake?"

That was a ludicrous question. Obviously Sherlock was awake. He was sitting in plain sight of John, with his eyes open.

"No," he said.

John snorted. "Tea, then?"

"Fine."

"Any leads on Jim?"

Sherlock had declined to inform John about his ongoing text conversations with Moriarty, and he was careful to delete them as they came in. "No," he said. "Nothing."

"Ah well," John said understandingly. "He'll have to surface eventually, and then we'll be rid of him. Here." He placed a hot cup of tea, complete with saucer, in front of Sherlock. Just how he liked it; no milk, teabag on the side. Because John was not particularly observant, it made the times when he did pay attention rather touching.

As he turned away, Sherlock checked the phone in his hand again.

_-Y havent u told the pet about us, luv?_

Sherlock frowned.

_-Secrets secrets hurt sum1_

There was no good reason not to tell John, except that Sherlock knew he wouldn't like it – wouldn't want to hear that he was carrying on a correspondence that didn't seem to be leading towards Moriarty's capture. John did not appreciate the great rarity of a truly challenging opponent, somebody of Sherlock's own intellect, or close to it, to match wits with. Given the chance, John would just shoot Moriarty if he could. And he wouldn't like that Sherlock didn't entirely feel the same way.

"I'm going up," said John. "Try to get some sleep, eh?"

Sherlock nodded, not meaning it. He glanced down at the phone: -_Goodnight, duckie, _it read.

* * *

><p><em>-I watch u constantly, <em>said tonight's text.

"Sherlock? Everything alright?" John was looking at him oddly. "Did something happen?"

Blast, he evidently wasn't concealing his reactions as well as usual. He whimsically imagined that this was how a cheating husband might feel. "It's just Mycroft being a prat," he muttered.

_-Its not mycroft _said the phone_. _

_-Ur such a liar. _

_-Poor pet doesn't even know how u dont trust him._

Clearly Moriarty had them under some form of surveillance, but Sherlock did not know exactly to what extent. It almost seemed like he could hear their conversation, or was he perhaps lip-reading through the window? Sherlock glanced outside and saw nothing.

The texts came from an unlisted number, and there had been no point trying to track them back to the source as they were routed, at random, all over the world.

He suspected that Moriarty preferred this method of communication because the messages were so completely unrevealing: no sounds in the background, no smells, not even inflection. Just the words, floating on the blank screen, with no accompanying data.

He hated it.

_-I watch u constantly, _said the phone, again.

_-Ur like an animal in the zoo surrounded by idiots._

_-They can all c u and poke u and they can't know what ur thinking._

Very poetic, thought Sherlock, more puzzled than ever, but what the hell was the point?

_-They think they know u. Ur pet thinks he knows u. But they cant understand._

_-Why are you saying this - SH. _

_-What do you possibly hope to gain with this drivel? - SH_

There was a long spell of silence – long enough for Sherlock to devise three separate experiments to reveal the presence of fingerprints on fabrics like wool.

_-I know u. _The text said. That was the last thing he sent that night.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock, did you sleep down here?" It was John, stepping over him where he lay in the hallway. The most interior space he could think of – no windows, no place to hide a camera.<p>

"No," said Sherlock, attempting to maintain his dignity. You did not technically classify a few hours of dozing as _sleep_.

"C'mon up, then," said John. "No lying on floors around here." He offered a calloused hand, and Sherlock swallowed his pride and accepted. Since Lestrade had called to warn them that "that mad bomber from the pool" had been spotted at the Underground station closest toBaker Street, neither of them had slept more than a few hours at a time … yet he noted that it was always him that John worried about. Was Sherlock sleeping enough, had he eaten, would he please take a shower, for Chrissake? Sherlock didn't understand it, but he found that he enjoyed it, just a little.

He always enjoyed being the center of attention.

As John headed off to the kitchen Sherlock reluctantly reached for the phone to check for new texts, wishing that he could just switch the damn thing off and sit with John over a cup of tea, made up the precise way he liked it, instead. But he couldn't afford to ignore even one of Moriarty's texts, as any of them could contain a critical clue.

_-Theyll stone u 2 death, _said the most recent message.

Puzzled, Sherlock scrolled back through the missed texts: there were seven of them.

_-What do u think will happen 2 u, _said the text message_, _

_-with ur great brain? _

_-In this wretched, ridiculous world?_

_-The ants cant understand any1 different from them._

_-Theyll eat u alive_

_-& do u know what commoners do 2 witches?_

_-Theyll stone u 2 death._

Sherlock shuddered. Sometimes Moriarty had a very unfortunate knack for metaphor, and rather ominous timing.

"Sherlock, toast!" called John, from the other room. "And if you say you're not hungry, I'm going to stuff it down your throat."

* * *

><p>When they went outside Sherlock felt as though everyone's eyes were drawn to him, and he suddenly recalled Moriarty's words – <em>like an animal in the zoo<em>. He shuddered unwillingly and forced his well-trained mind to other avenues, to the various pieces of the puzzle that could lead him to Moriarty. There had to be something.

Of course he suspected that Moriarty's purpose in writing the texts was some form of psychological attack, but this was clearly a miscalculation on his part: Sherlock had iron self-control and very little imagination, which he hoped rendered him unsusceptible to that type of manipulation. He was not at all suggestible.

Jim clearly failed to understand his opponent.

"Sherlock!" John's hand whipped under his arm and tugged him abruptly back – he looked up to find that he was right on the curb of a busy street.

"I know your mind is going a million miles an hour," said John, with exasperated patience, "but could you not just wander into traffic?"

"Sorry," Sherlock muttered. He shrugged instinctively away from John's hand on his elbow – he didn't like to be touched, didn't like physical contact that he didn't initiate. But in the next moment he realized that John's concern had broken whatever spell Moriarty seemed to be trying to cast. He felt normal again, focused. He wished he hadn't rejected the touch so quickly.

"Right," said John, apparently not offended at being shrugged off – of course he wasn't offended, nothing Sherlock did seemed to irritate him, unless some innocent third party was involved. "Well, are you having any breakthroughs?"

Sherlock was rather disturbed by the breakthrough that John seemed to be capable of banishing Moriarty's influence from his mind. He would have liked to test the theory further, but it seemed difficult to replicate. "No," he said, "nothing. We'll have to wait for him to make contact."

"He usually makes contact by threatening to kill someone," John muttered, fretfully, steering Sherlock without touching him towards the tube, by switching to walk on his far side. Herding him like a sheepdog with his flock.

"It is a challenge," Sherlock acknowledged.

* * *

><p>"John?" called Sherlock, as he came in to set his coat over the kitchen table. "Mycroft says he might have something on Jim's latest victim. We ought to take a look."<p>

There was no answer.

Sherlock put the kettle on for tea (unthinkable – John was domesticating him) and dug about in the breadbox for a biscuit. "John?"

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

_-Hes upstairs, _said the text, innocently neutral.

"John!" Sherlock dropped the phone and flew up the stairs. "Answer me, damnit!"

"Sherlock?" A familiarly rumpled blond head popped out of the shared bathroom. "What's all this, then?"

Sherlock paused on the top step, feeling his heart thud painfully against his ribs. John was fine; he was in the shower, that's all. Moriarty was simply messing with him, taunting him with what he could do.

"Sherlock?" John had come so close that he was eye level with Sherlock, who was one step below the top flight. It was an unusual angle, and Sherlock found his eyes hungrily drinking in the features of John's face. His evident concern was strangely soothing.

One of John's hands reached out uncertainly towards his shoulder, but Sherlock ducked away and hurried back downstairs to seize the phone.

_-Fooled u, _read the text.

_-Next time._

* * *

><p><em>-Poor little Sherlock, whats going 2 happen 2 u?<em>

He knew Jim was enjoying the opportunity to get into his head, perfectly aware that Sherlock was forced to read every trivial missive in case he revealed something important. Knowing that Sherlock was unable to ignore him.

_-Shall I come visit u in the psych ward or the gaol - wherever u end up?_

Clearly Moriarty's words were meaningless, yet they were unsettling nevertheless; the texts were so flatly devoid of emotion, that it gave them a strange ring of truth.

In spite of himself, he shuddered just a little at last text:

_-ull die all alone :)_

He hated the chill that had crept into his limbs; ridiculous, he was being ridiculous. Perhaps he should fetch himself more tea.

He didn't want tea.

"Sherlock?" John's voice came from behind him, and Sherlock whirled about, startled. "Oi, jumpy much?" He came closer. "What are you up to lately, anyway - you're like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

Of course, he knew nothing. There was no way he could possibly know. Sherlock had made sure of that. "It's just the case," he said unwillingly, after a pause.

"You need to take a break," said John. "Give that great brain of yours something to something to work with, eh? Even machines need to be kept in proper order." There was a fondness in his voice that Sherlock found … thawing.

"Perhaps, for once, you are right."

He headed reluctantly for the settee, willing himself to be calm. John tutted over his hollow cheekbones and went to fetch a packet of digestives, which he had found Sherlock to be somewhat susceptible to, as long as they were the plain ones. John himself preferred the kind with chocolate, but he never bought them anymore. Contemplating this obvious sign of consideration seemed to smooth over of the rough places in Sherlock's brain.

Of course John, when given license, could be a terrible fusser; sensing that he had the advantage, although he did not understand why, he fully exploited Sherlock's momentary acquiescence and insisted that he sit on the couch and have a hot tea and two (two!) digestives, and even submit to having a blanket tossed over his lap, as though he was gone into shook again. It was shameless of him, really, but Sherlock found himself going along with all of it, just to burn away the ice of Moriarty's last lingering words.

_-We'll find out soon enough, duckie. _

* * *

><p>He had to time his next move very carefully. John usually left work between 5.30 and quarter-of, and there was a brief window before then for Sherlock to get to him.<p>

"John," he hissed.

"Jeesuz Christ, Sherlock!" John spun around from where he was attempting to relieve himself, as he usually did at this time of day, due to the influx of fluids with his lunch.

"Keep it down!" snapped Sherlock, irritably. "We don't know who could be listening."

"Why the hell are you in here?" John looked around as if he expected to find himself at Baker Street, instead of in the washroom at the surgery where he worked.

"I do not believe this location to be under surveillance."

John blinked. "Well, good," he said. "That's nice to hear. Is this a, er, Mycroft thing, then?" With unnecessary modesty, he carefully turned his back before tucking himself away and zipping up his pants.

"No. Listen, John. I have reason to believe that Moriarty will soon be contracting me with his location."

"What? Why would he do that?"

"You're not _listening_," Sherlock insisted. "He will contact me. He will want me to meet him, and he will want me to come alone."

"Well, you're not going to meet him. You're not going, right?"

"There's no time to argue," said Sherlock, "When he calls there will likely be very little time to plan. We need to be ready."

"How do you _know _all this?" asked John, brow furrowed as he tried to understand.

"Just trust me," Sherlock said. "There's no time to talk. It's possible he is having us followed, he may already be able to hear us."

"But Sherlock …"

"I _know him_," said Sherlock, hurriedly. "I know how he thinks. He'll want me to come alone to some remote location. He believes it will be easier to affect me, if I'm isolated."

"Well, that's classic creepy serial killer mentality," John acknowledged. He seemed relatively un-phased by this development, which came as unexpected relief. "How is planning to _affect_ you, exactly?"

Sherlock paused. "He has – some kind of misunderstanding about me," he said. "Thinks we're going to, I don't know, run a criminal empire together, or something."

He risked a glance up at John's face and found that his lips were pressed together tightly, tight enough to turn them white.

"Well, he's like you in one way," said John finally, his tone so welcomingly light that Sherlock felt his whole body warming in response. John really was excellent at the application of humor to difficult situations.

"What's that?"

"You're both idiots," said John. "Come on, then, tell me the plan."

.


	2. Chapter 2

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**Dangerous Assumptions**

**Chapter Two**

_._

_._

When Sherlock was a child, he was interested in everything: the texture of cement on the sidewalk, the softness of wool or cotton or silk, and the precise color of different people's urine. The a) shape and b) taste of every kind of leaf, and if they gave you a stomachache after you ate them. The grains of powder produced by crushing chalk. There was nothing that was beneath his notice; in fact, he couldn't _stop_ noticing everything.

Of particular interest were the bubbles made of dish washing liquid that Mycroft blew at him through a wire hanger. How did the bubbles float, and could Sherlock float? Why did they break, and could Sherlock break?

_Could Sherlock somehow in some way become a bubble?_

At this age Sherlock frequently got into trouble for wandering off. Once he went missing in Preston for two hours, until he was finally found in an alley poking a dead pigeon with a stick. _Brilliant_, young Sherlock had said.

Then Mycroft was sent away to school and for a while Sherlock had Mummy all to himself, which was a great improvement. They would take walks together and then take naps together, and then watch Cook making Father's super, and then eat the supper with Father when he came home. Father would read the paper aloud and they would play games. Sherlock loved puzzles and games and he was _very good at them_, and Father was always pleased.

Then one day Sherlock was sent to school as well.

There followed a very trying time for young Sherlock, because although the form master was standing at the head of the class giving lessons, they did not seem to be any more interesting than the toothmarks in the gum stuck to his desk, or the scuffs on the wood floor, or the pattern of the tweed the master was wearing. And anyway, Sherlock could hardly hear him over the flicker of florescent lighting (which was _fascinating_ - what made it glow? Why did it flicker? What was inside those tubes? What would happen if Sherlock, just accidentally say, _broke_ a tube?)

There were fifty other students and Sherlock found them very distracting too. They were fidgety and cross; did not like to have their clothes touched or smelled; were not interested in florescent lighting (very strange. Did they already know how it worked, then?). Previously Sherlock had liked to be touched; he liked Mummy's flowery kisses, or Mycroft solemnly holding his hand to lead him across the street. But the rough, boisterous boys of his form soon gave him an aversion to physical contact. Soon he was going weeks without being touched, and the master's ruler was no improvement.

It became quickly evident that Sherlock would have to narrow the scope of his attention, or there would be A Fuss. School work must be dealt with before the scents of the student sitting next to him (chewing gum; chalk dust; metabolites of glue). Of course, the lessons were very easy, but it was always the easiest things that made it hardest to concentrate. He found himself making challenges out of ordinary assignments, trying to make a game or a puzzle.

The process of paying attention to the lesson, and only the lesson, was the first test of Sherlock's rather exceptional self-control. Early success was achieved when Sherlock correctly recited aloud the list of virtues to which all of the students were to aspire. They were:

_Do not Lie;_

_Respect the Queen, your Teachers, your Parents, and God;_

_Be of Service;_

_Honor Your Promises;_

_Be Clean and Tidy;_

_Try Your Best._

Sherlock found 700 anagrams in this list.

He began to realize that, when he focused his attention on a single task, he was capable of absorbing and retaining any amount of information. What seemed to him to be relatively simple things – the rules of Latin grammar, the notes in a concerto – seemed to amaze and impress the people around him. Apparently other people struggled with these things, even when they really concentrated.

Sherlock began to imagine his mind to be a great filing system, like the card catalogue in the library, where irrelevant facts could be identified and disregarded, and things of more importance could be sorted, retained, and reviewed. The texture of the ceiling tiles – irrelevant, delete. A collection of quotations from Homer – of apparent interest to the form master, file. The components of blood: personal interest, retain. Every night before he went to sleep, Sherlock reviewed his files and refined his system.

He excelled first in maths, which he enjoyed, and then less willingly English (ridiculous), Geography (irrelevant), and music (surprisingly … acceptable). Sherlock led the form that year and every year after, but he was not appointed to any leadership positions within the school. Sherlock had, shall we say, leadership problems.

The other boys did not like him.

It was mutual.

Once Sherlock realized that the relatively simple task of repeating some foolish trivia won him respect and honor, he came to realize that most people were idiots. Honestly, if he could manage to grasp the tediously straightforward lessons spooned out by the various masters, there was no excuse for anyone else.

The boys in his class were a lusty, rowdy, red-faced bunch; hooligans, the lot of them. He had never forgiven them for being so dizzily busy all time: they had so many expressions in a minute (twenty-seven on average, by his count) and so many personal tics (Lursten tugged his cap when he lied; McGinty was sticky-fingered and his pupils visibly widened when he saw something he wanted). Everything about them was obvious, from the stains on their clothes (Harris had been stealing from the kitchens again; he hid biscuits in his bed and they crumbled in the night, leaving a notable smell of flour) to the rates of their respiration (faster when lying, fighting, or apprehensive; slower when attempting to work facts through their thick skulls).

He understood that the other boys operated on a system which was very different from his own, their minds completely unlike his perfect card catalogue. They reacted to a simple set of stimuli (in order: the need to belong to a group; greed; and the competition for dominance within their group). Why they would not better organize their thoughts and their reactions was a question which frequently confused Sherlock. Did they really prefer to wallow in their ridiculous emotions, like so many sweaty, hairy young animals? It appeared that they did, and this was unacceptable to Sherlock.

He was not interested in their communications or their friendship. By that time, he was mostly interested in the elements of the periodic table, and their various combinations.

Occasionally his fellow students attempted some petty prank in an attempt to bring him down to their muddy level: nasty things left in his bed or in his school bag, insulting nicknames, or infrequently the threat of violence. To address this latter concern Sherlock obligingly learned to fence and box – it merely took a few weeks' attention – and sent them home with their noses bloody and their eyes blackened. They mostly left him alone after that, which Sherlock preferred.

By this time the boyhood rules of morality had become suspect. _Do not Lie_ had become _Tell the truth unless people don't want to hear it,_ and Sherlock had no interest in what people did and didn't want to hear. _Try Your Best _became _Let someone else answer once in a while, Sherlock._

As he entered sixth form Sherlock began to have trouble concentrating and wondered if he might not have reached the capacity of the filing system. He began to delete files. Natural History first, although he did retain the memory of the innards of a frog, vividly displayed and glistening. Astronomy, Keats, most of Geography, all of Homer and the Iliad - he needed the space for equations, which he lovingly memorized. The combination and reactions of chemicals was as real to him as other people's friends.

He dreamed of the day he would someday live by himself and be left alone to study.

For years he had been spending the holidays in London with a crabbed, elderly uncle. There he discovered fine clothes, the arts, and sex. And also drugs. He loved London the way he had never loved a woman: tenderly, patiently, thrilled by her every particularity. He memorized every street and neighborhood within the city, every train schedule and bus route.

His father died.

Sherlock had been away at school for many years; it was possible that many of his early memories of Father had been deleted. He filed _Holmes, Sheridan_ under _Deceased_. At the funeral, Mycroft was angry and called him a sociopath.

Later he apologized, by Sherlock deleted it.

He had been mostly separated from his brother for a long time, as they had gone to different schools (Mummy's idea; to give them unique fields of influence and prevent undue competition and comparison between them). Now that they were briefly back together again, Sherlock found himself puzzled by Mycroft's interest in the study of human behavior, specifically, in influencing and controlling it. Who had any interest in manipulating the behavior of dumb beasts? They only interrupted his concentration with their mouth breathing.

Then Mycroft began trying to manipulate _him_, which Sherlock found unacceptable: he filed his brother under _enemies, arch_, to be avoided at all costs. They went their separate ways after that. Mycroft entered into politics, and Sherlock went to University to study Chemistry. He had taken his A-levels a year early and passed them all.

It was through Chemistry that Sherlock found Crime. He had become something of a specialist in the field of poisons, and this led naturally to an interest in murders. Poisoning led to other kinds of murders and from there it was – off to the races.

Despite his dislike of ordinary people, Sherlock found that their tedious attempts at villainy still interested him. Crimes were like puzzles, and best of all they were puzzles that could often be solved using his old passion for _noticing things_. It seemed that other people, after all these years, had still never learned to see the things which were obvious to Sherlock: the precise type of cigarettes smoked by a suspect, for example, either by the difference in aromas between the brands, or by the type of ash left, or by their remnants left at the scene.

Sherlock discovered to his great pleasure that all of his childhood fascinations were still filed away somewhere, not deleted after all, merely set side in indefinite storage. Buried with the half-recollected sight of the dead pigeon, its head clearly crushed by – as young Sherlock had easily deduced – impact with the brick wall.

He had always read the papers but now he found himself reading _though_ them, solving them before he got to the end. The Carl Powers case came up when Sherlock was eighteen; he knew that Carl had been murdered, but the police wouldn't listen to a teenage chemistry student.

Sherlock would make them listen, someday. He decided he would become a Consulting Detective. He had invented the position himself.

Perhaps it was the only remnant of those tedious schoolboy morals: _Be of Service. Respect the Queen. _It was irritating but inescapable that the pabulum served up when Sherlock was young and credulous was difficult to delete. For years Mycroft had been suggesting that he take a job in one of the shadowy government offices, but Sherlock had always and persistently refused; he had no interest in doing things behind closed doors, always covering it up. _Don't lie. _

He made a few friends in University, but very few; Mike Stamford, since he insisted on considering himself such, one or two of the less-thick fellow students, and some professors who recognized him for what he was. Lestrade, who he met on a case and who became more important later. But most people avoided him, and those who did not seemed almost to feel somehow sorry for him, as though they understood something about him which he did not.

It was unpleasant.

It didn't matter: people were only a distraction and a nuisance. He graduated with honors and settled down to begin his life's work.

Then he was sent John.

That was how Sherlock always thought of it: that John had been fetched specifically for him, after he merely mentioned to Stamford that he could not afford a flat he coveted in the heart of his beloved London (Mycroft, the bastard, was controlling his finances again, and as it turned out, Consulting Detective did not pay particularly well).

Most people upset Sherlock's delicate filing system, with their emotions leaking about all over the place. John wasn't like that. He was rather self-contained and reserved, and had a very quiet way of moving about the flat that Sherlock found … less disruptive than expected.

He really was a terribly ordinary sort of fellow, of course – about as clever as most of them, which wasn't saying much. And he had such a touchingly narrow view of right and wrong. But somehow, John's questions – although very stupid – did not irritate Sherlock so much as other people's stupid questions did. His attempts at deduction were amusingly incorrect. Somehow in the act of explaining his thought process, and disproving John's idiotic assumptions, Sherlock found his own conclusions were clarified, streamlined and improved. John's thinking was often instructive, in the exact opposite sense of correct.

Sherlock had invested a lot of time in John.

It was not just the effort involved in expounding on his various conclusions (Sherlock considered himself a natural educator: did he not patiently explain his methods to the Yard, the readers of his blog, and anybody who asked or, really, just happened to be in the vicinity?).

Nor was it the not-inconsiderable exertion of trying – ineffectually, it must be said - to demonstrate to his flatmate the proper modes of dressing, speaking, and presenting oneself in public. John, left to his own devices, would prefer to wonder about like some kind of deranged, lethal toddler, with his cunning jumpers and dragging shoelaces.

No, it was the time and care that went into training John in his role as the perfect Assistant.

First, there had been an extensive testing process: could John follow directions? Could he work long hours without complaining? It was evident from the first that he was loyal and brave, but was he _trainable, _was he willing and eager to learn what Sherlock required of him?

John was.

John answered Sherlock's texts, even when they were completely unreasonable and he was arguably engaged in something more important. [_Can't obtain decent goat testes at usual rate. Go to the butchers on Harriford as soon as possible - SH_]. He would forgo sleep and even food if Sherlock needed him to, although he was better with the former than with the latter (he got increasingly snappish as his blood sugar dropped). And by the end of their first day he had proved himself willing to kill for Sherlock, so the early results were really quite encouraging.

Further experiments as to the precise limits of John's tolerance had to be unfortunately cut short when the main subject, in the middle of observing Lestrade's attempt at an interrogation, staggered abruptly and had to catch himself on a nearby wall. That was 63 hours into their second case, with no sleep, food or water provided in that time. John had apologized immediately and profusely, clearly embarrassed by his weakness, and looked pathetically pale and wan as the odious Sally steered him to one of the viewing chairs and pressed a cup of tea into his hands.

That was not acceptable: John was Sherlock's person to provide for, not Sally's – it was inappropriate of her to intercede, and anyway it rendered the results of the experiment invalid. Sherlock took prompt possession of his flatmate (after the interrogation was over, of course) and escorted him home, texting one of the irregulars - Garry, manic depressive, lived under the Battersea Railway Bridge - to fetch out Angelo's and stock the refrigerator [_DO NOT STORE BY GOAT TESTES – SH_].

It was worth noting that John's temper had its limits also, and some of their more egregious tiffs resulted in him kipping for the night at Sarah's, or less often at his sister Harry's. The most common offenses involved theft of John's sentimental possessions - mostly relicts of his family or fellow soldiers overseas - which he preferred _not_ to have analyzed. Attempts to do so resulted in an 85% chance of John sleeping elsewhere for one night, with a standard deviation of approximately eight hours. Also, actions which John judged to have a negative impact on people he either liked or sympathized with. This latter was more serious, and would result in an average of seventy-two hours of non-communicative interaction, as though John believed that his silence was somehow punishing Sherlock.

Still, on the whole, John was excellent for the position of Assistant. Intuitive, fast-acting, and something of a remarkable shot. Sherlock was really quite pleased. If John wanted to sit quietly in the corner while Sherlock worked, that was not altogether unpleasant. If John wanted to follow him around and remark, every so often, on Sherlock's great cleverness, well, that would be alright, perhaps.

All he was really asking for, after all, was somebody who understood his role in Sherlock's life: as a supporter, an observer, perhaps a blogger – nothing more. Sherlock had never expected to have a friend, had never wanted one since he had first got used to the idea that people did not like him. People liked dull, beautiful people, and Sherlock was odd and had great brains and was a sociopath, however high-functioning.

But John was good, and his affection for Sherlock was very genuine.

It was odd.

Sherlock found that he almost preferred to have him around. His presence was really quite – soothing. Even his touches did not send the same unpleasant spark through Sherlock that most people's did.

The touching was infrequent, fortunately. That was good.

When Sherlock imagined a perfect world, it was still one in which he was left alone to Work, and people would stop doubting his great conclusions. They would take him seriously as a detective and listen to his insights with respect. But perhaps John could be there, too, in the little room upstairs.

Beyond that, Sherlock couldn't picture anything he really wanted.

But then, he never did have much imagination.

Moriarty believed that they were the same, he and Sherlock. That they _belonged _together, to use the kind of dramatic language that Sherlock despised. Because they were both so clever – in the whole world, there might be no other person that understood the Work the way that they did.

Sherlock realized now that the crimes which Moriarty had engineered had kept Sherlock entertained for most of his career.

Now, as he made his way to the warehouse district with John behind him, Sherlock couldn't help wondering if the difference between him and Jim really only came down to those old, memorized rules. _Be of Service. Try Your Best. _No doubt Moriarty had never been compelled to recite them. Was it only an outdated, obsolete habit of thinking?

"Hurry up, John!"

And now they were going to meet with a madman, slipping together through the dark, intimately familiar streets. Sherlock did not believe that all three of them would survive the night.

On the one hand, Jim was so _interesting_, so terribly unpredictable that even Sherlock, with his massive intellect, could barely anticipate his next move.

But at the same time, John was important, he was _valuable_. Sherlock was … fond of him.

"Faster!"

Moriarty hated John, believed that he was between them. Moriarty wanted to kill him, preferably in some visceral, horrible way.

John was the only person who liked Sherlock.

John was warm and smelled like detergent.

Sherlock didn't want John to die.

_"Hurry!" _he shouted back.

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

**Dangerous Assumptions**

**Chapter Three**

_._

_._

"So, where is your little friend?" asked Jim, in his lilting tone (Dublin, the North side, if Sherlock was any judge, raised middle-class, one parent from a region further to the West - Killarny, perhaps?).

"John is not a part of this," Sherlock said.

"Oh, the Doctor is a part of it if I say he is," said Jim pleasantly. "You see, I have friends too. One of them is headed to Baker Street right now. Can you guess what he's going to do when he gets there?"

Sherlock did have an idea, yes.

"He's going to kill your pet," said Jim. "Or perhaps he's already dead."

And only Sherlock had known that John was safely away from the flat already, was in fact presumably circling the warehouse now looking for another way in. Thank God he'd included him in the plan this time! Sherlock could just imagine how it would have played out, if he'd snuck away again, kept everything a secret until the end.

Sherlock had a gun, of course - the precious, illegal military-issue Browning John had brought back from the war, and carefully hidden away from Sherlock ever since that time at the pool when he had misappropriated it without permission. This time John had pushed it into Sherlock's hands as they sat having a curry at the table, saying _carry this with you everywhere. _

Sherlock understood that, to a man like John, the gift of a prized weapon was significant, something like Sherlock sharing – well, anything, really (Sherlock did not like to share). _Take it, _John had said, _you know_ y_ou'll have a better chance than me, he'll let you get closer. _

Obviously, Jim had seen it at once. _Repeating yourself, aren't you,_ he'd said, not seeming overly interested. _Does he even know how to lock that thing away? For goodness sake, there could be children about._

"There might still be time to send a quick text, call the whole thing off," said Jim now, studying Sherlock's expression. "Or shall I send for his head, instead? Have it brought here, perhaps. Would you like that?"

Stubbornly, Sherlock said nothing. John had suggested that he _try not to engage him_.

But Jim must have read something in his face, because his expression lit up in a nasty smile. "Ooh, you brought him here, didn't you? On his way already, I should think. Here's me thinking I'd have to fetch him, but you – great detective that you are – you've arranged for him to follow us. Led him straight here, like a lamb to the slaughter."

It was true that John was probably already inside. And that Jim had a nasty, long-necked rifle, the kind that could probably fire 700 rounds in a minute.

"Right, then, let's get down to business," said Jim. "We both know what the game is here. You came to this warehouse to meet me, in the middle of the night – I already know you're interested. So how can I convince you to join me?" His tone was sensible, as though he was asking a casual question that he really wanted Sherlock's help with. "There must be something you want."

"Can't think of anything offhand," said Sherlock. "I'm _so_ hard to shop for." (John had said that, at Christmas).

"Is it just relief from the tedium?" Jim asked. "The chance to really use that great brain for once? You must know that solving crimes is nothing, compared to the thrill of committing them."

Sherlock declined to comment, and pointedly checked his watch. Just going on 12:15. No sign of John yet.

"Tedious. You're really going to make me go through the whole rigmarole, aren't you?" Jim looked put out, as though taking the time to threaten Sherlock properly was exhausting. "Fine. You need a little push, something to make it alright for you to say yes, so I'll make it easy on you - how about a nice honest threat?"

"Do tell."

"The estimable Doctor Watson," said Jim. "Agree to join me, or I'll shoot you both – him first, right in front of you, and then you directly after."

Sherlock remained silent.

"It won't be quick," taunted Jim. "He'll suffer before he dies. I'll shoot him somewhere he'll have lots of time to think about it. The stomach, perhaps … I hear it's excruciating."

Sherlock decided quite rationally that he would kill John with his own gun before he ever let Moriarty near him. Or was that what Jim had been intending all along?

"So what do you say, do we have a deal? Do you agree to be my first lieutenant, or do we get to see the inside of John's intestines when he gets here?"

"You'd shoot him anyway," said Sherlock stiffly, "even if I agreed."

"Oh, probably," said Jim. "I do really dislike him." He leaned in close, and Sherlock closed his eyes. "Just to teach you what happens when someone like us tries to have a _friend. _We're like a poison, Sherlock – we kill everything we touch." The cool brush of lips at Sherlock's ear. "I'd be doing you a favor, really. Creatures like that, they only hold you back. You'll feel a lot better when he's gone."

Sherlock kept his eyes closed.

"It's alright, Sherlock, I know you're scared." Jim's voice was low, coaxing. "I know you have some tedious moral holdovers to push through. I'll go slow, Sherlock, I'll be so gentle – so patient with you, since it's your _first time_ and all."

Strange, thought Sherlock, that in the last half-hour Jim had switched seamlessly from attempting to bribe him, to threatening him, to apparently propositioning him. It was possible that to a psychopath they were all much of the same thing.

"Do you think he cares about you?" asked Jim. "That's adorable. Really, I'm touched – look at me, I'm trembling with emotion. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, and his faithful Dog, Watson. But you must know he'll never understand you, not really. Not like I can."

Was that the sound of a door, closing?

"I can't stand these ordinary people, Sherlock, making you believe that their moronic rules should apply to you. Can't you see that they don't? You're a genius, for God's sake – you should be at the top of the heap, but what are you doing instead? Nattering on with your little pet, living in a dump, trying to _help _them all. As if you could. If somebody isn't clever enough to hold onto their money or their lives, then they don't deserve to. What you need is the opportunity to show the world what you can _really _do."

Jim leaned in close again. "You should let me kill him," he whispered.

In the distance, the sound of footsteps, someone running with a short-legged gait. John was nearby, making no attempt to be quiet - he must know they were there. _"Sherlock!"_

Sherlock turned his head, listening.

"You are terribly fond of him, aren't you," said Jim idly. "Can't see why. I could get you a hundred army doctors, if you required them."

But Sherlock had met thousands of men, and none of them called his observations 'brilliant' in the same tone as John.

"It's as though you really expect that swine to comprehend a pearl." Jim raised the gun and checked the sight. "We don't._ Talk_. To pigs. Sherlock." He aimed at the door. "We eat them."

John came around the corner, heedless of the danger; he didn't care, Sherlock realized, he didn't care if he was shot. He raised a hand to stop him, started to say something – '_look out?_' something useless and inane - But John crossed the room and for some reason, nobody fired. Most likely Jim was waiting for the time when it would have the most impact.

"Sherlock, thank God," panted John, coming to stand next to him. Like this was all he'd been waiting for: the chance to die at his side.

"Pathetic," said Jim. "I'm going to have to kill him for you, I can see that clearly now." But still, he didn't shoot - not yet. He raised the gun and pointed it at them, but he didn't make any move to pull the trigger.

This was all John's fault. John had said they'd be stronger together - stupid. Why had he thought that? There was no evidence for it that Sherlock could see – whatever affection he had for John, it was clear that Moriarty saw it as a weakness, and would use it that way.

Now they would probably both die. _Yes, really excellent plan._ Why the hell had he listened to _John_, who also liked pop music and thought prime time telly _wasn't all bad_?

"Tell me, Shirley, what did you think was going to happen?" said Jim. "A man like you, with your gorgeous brain - did you think you were going to live happily ever after, in this wretched, _ridiculous_ civilization?" Jim's eyes were burning into Sherlock's, fervent with belief. "There's no place for you. You're always going to be on the outside. Just a brain in a jar. Everybody's going to try and use you for something. Every politician, every criminal, every _saint_ – They all just want what you can do for them. They don't want you."

"As though that matters to me," Sherlock said, dismissively. It wasn't that he didn't believe Jim - he did. In his experience, being a genius meant being lonely, by definition: you couldn't be exceptional, and also just like everybody else. But he had never wanted to be like everyone else, never valued being normal. He was _better _than normal, he was Sherlock Holmes. He _despised _normal.

… Except for John.

"That's right, for you it's all about the game," said Jim. "A mind like yours requires constant stimulation. But do you think any of them can understand that? No, they all belittle you behind your back, even if they're happy enough to call you when they need you."

"You're not really listening to this, are you?" John demanded.

Sherlock wanted to answer, to say that he hadn't forgotten the plan, but he forced himself to remain silent and gave no sign of recognition on his face.

"Quiet, Pet, we'll get to you next," said Jim. His focus never wavered away from Sherlock.

"Do you think anyone but me can value the way you deserve?" Jim reached out to set a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, still talking in the same low, intimate tone. "Nobody can ever really understand you but me."

This was apparently more than John could stand. "Sherlock -" he started.

Jim cut him off. "Nobody else will ever want you," he insisted. "Nobody will ever love you – nobody."

"Sherlock, it's not true," said John. "_I_ love you."

For the first time Sherlock could remember, his mind went blank. For a second he thought Moriarty might have shot him, after all. _I love yo_u. Was it possible? Was there any chance that John really did love him?

It was true that John would do anything Sherlock asked (Sherlock had tested the theory, thoroughly). John was patient with his experiments, even when they were set up on his chair. He accepted Sherlock's work and even tried to help, as much as he was capable. He had demonstrated, on multiple occasions, that he was concerned for Sherlock's physical and mental well-being. He was – protective, to use an odd word, one that seemed strange applied to himself.

Then again - although Sherlock did not claim to be any expert in the subject - he could not seem to recall many instances of John demonstrating much attraction to him. Surely he would have noticed, if John's gaze had ever lingered, his pupils ever widened when he saw him?

Well, if John didn't see it as a barrier to their relationship, arguably he knew his own feelings best (in this arena, at least).

Sherlock turned to meet John's eyes. "You love me?"

"Oh come off it, a man will say anything when he's about to die," snorted Jim.

"Do you mean it?" asked Sherlock.

Wordlessly, John nodded.

"You're mad," said Jim, perhaps sensing this conversation was getting away from him. "You're letting the monkey distract you. Here, I'll take care of it for you - "

He raised the rifle.

Somehow, in the end, it was the work of a moment to kill Moriarty – his greatest enemy, the finest opponent he had ever known. Possibly the one person in the world capable of truly understanding him. Sherlock merely raised John's gun and fired, put him down like a dog in the street.

_He can't aim at both of us at once, right? _John had said, over the curry. _So whenever he tries to kill me, you take him out instead. _

Simple, but surprising effective.

Now, with John behind him, attempting to regulate his breathing, Sherlock looked over the body – that great brain, spread in a puddle across the cement. In his mind he was seeing Jim as he has last stood: his face twisted in spite, the gun swinging around to aim.

_Nobody else will ever want you, Sherlock_. _Nobody will ever love you. _

Jim's words were foolish – insignificant – but they still apparently held some inexplicable form of power. Why was it only John's reassurance, John's affection that dispelled them?

_I love you. _

John, under the gun, lips tight, jaw clenched; a soldier's look. Sherlock knew someday he would die with that expression on his face.

John loved him. Perhaps not exactly in the way he intended, not yet, but he had said it, and Sherlock was willing to take him at his word.

In fact, Sherlock discovered that he preferred to believe the assertion was true.

But at the moment John looked shaken – Sherlock should really get him home. "Well," he said. "Shall we go back to the flat, then?"

There was also something of a clean-up to arrange, but he was not much concerned about that; he already had multiple contingencies in place for just such a situation (in fact it was something of a hobby of his). It was really unfortunate that there would be no time to test the _baking_ technique, but liquid nitrogen was faster, and easier to arrange. All that was required was to text a few of the Irregulars who could be depended upon absolutely, and it would be taken care of.

More importantly, there was an immense experiment to be undertaken, and Sherlock intended to fully enjoy the experience of _being_ _loved_. He would show John off to Mycroft and Lestrade – they had never believed anyone could love Sherlock, but here he was! This was so exciting. This would be _fun. _

* * *

><p>Hours later, safely back at 221B, Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts by a scratching at the door.<p>

That would be Matthew, the most trustworthy of the Irregulars: he would never reveal a secret - perhaps because his chronic schizophrenia gave him vivid hallucinations, or more likely because the electric shock therapy conducted in the 1970s had affected his memory. He could follow simple directions for approximately 12 hours, but things got pretty fuzzy for him after that.

If you were going to cover up a murder, Sherlock concluded, there could be no more desirable accomplice than a delusional man with no short-term memory.

He got up to answer the door, glancing over at John as he passed: still asleep on the settee, his face mashed into the horse-hair cushion. He had dozed off almost as soon as they got home.

In the hall Sherlock accepted the paper bag which was handed over with glassy-eyed compliance. In return he offered a tightly-bound roll of bills, along with a pillowcase containing John's gun and both of their clothes. Then Mathew had to hurry off to the incinerator before he got outside his time window and forgot what he was doing.

Alone again, Sherlock donned a pair of latex gloves and opened the bag. It contained a bloody knife wrapped in plastic, the leftover corn syrup, and some photographs that Sherlock surveyed grimly and then lit in his Bunsen burner. Next he extracted Jim's personal effects; a brown wallet that contained a false id and twenty quid, credit cards in the same fake name, and a rail pass. Also a strange silver ring, which Matthew must have cut off the finger that was wearing it – no, wait, the imprint of its shape in the wallet leather indicated that it had been kept in Jim's pocket. Interesting.

John snuffled in his sleep and rolled over; Sherlock glanced up. "Go back to sleep," he ordered. John's malleable features scrunched and rolled, and then smoothed back over into repose. Good.

Absently Sherlock turned the ring in his gloved fingers. The cards and ID would have to be destroyed, of course, but the rest of it he would keep. True, it did seem risky to store incriminating evidence in the hall closet, but Sherlock felt confident that Lestrade would not be searching the flat for drugs at any time within the next week, and as long as John didn't know it was there, all would be well.

He packed what he wanted into a black rucksack which had been purchased for this specific purpose. Except for the ring – that he kept out. When he was finished he came back to sit at John's side, staring at his slack, unconscious expression. An ordinary face, particularly stupid-looking with his mouth gaping open like that. But this was the face of someone who loved him.

Unbidden, Jim's voice came hissing in his ear: _We're like a poison, Sherlock_ - _we kill everything we touch._

"John," he said, bending over him where he appeared to be drooling. "John, wake up. I'm – I'm bored." No response: typical. John slept soundly these days, his nightmares of Afghanistan were long behind him (Sherlock liked to take some credit for that, having worn him out so fully and for so long that he had little energy left to waste on dreams. _You're welcome, John_).

He gave him a nudge and then skipped back to his own chair, pretending he hadn't disturbed him.

It was fortunate that his flat mate was not very difficult to fool.

"Sherlock?" John blinked and shifted, sitting up slowly and rubbing his eyes.

That was good – John's attention on Sherlock, his eyes on Sherlock's face, that faint crease of concern. Sherlock liked that, drank it in.

Sherlock slipped the heavy silver ring onto his finger. Foolish to be distressed by Moriarty's rhetoric; he was dead, and Sherlock had his head to prove it.

* * *

><p>Soon after, laying in John's bed, Sherlock took stock of his current situation. He was resting his head on a clean pillow that John had fetched for him, tucked under the only extra blanket, and his cheek was still tingling from the gentle kiss that John had planted there.<p>

He had installed himself into John's bedroom with barely a protest from his flat mate - excellent, things were progressing even better than anticipated. Sharing living quarters was an important component of domestic harmony.

After a few half-hearted grumbles about Sherlock's shifting about (he'd only wanted to experiment with co-sleeping positions – anyway, John should have anticipated that Sherlock would be a rather restless sleeper), John had finally dropped off, and was now breathing steadily beside him.

It was strange to share a bed. Sherlock never had before, although he'd heard about it, of course.

Their fingers were just barely brushing.

_John loved him. _

As far as he knew, nobody had ever loved him before, unless you counted Mummy or his half-recollected Father. Well, and perhaps Mycroft, but Mycroft's love seemed to be rather a grasping, begrudging thing; he just wanted to keep Sherlock under glass, away from the world, and Sherlock wanted no part of it. Mycroft kept bonsai trees at his office, and the sight of their clipped, contorted branches made Sherlock inwardly shudder.

Sherlock rolled onto his side to study John's sleeping form.

It was true that they could never be partners, in the traditional sense – as John himself would probably admit, they were hardly _equals_. But if John was willing to be guided by Sherlock's wishes, just as he was on their cases, perhaps it could work.

He had already passed a few hours drafting a quick, basic framework for the relationship as he would prefer it to progress:

1. John would defer to Sherlock's knowledge of people, locations, motives, murder weapons, and hiding places. Also chemistry, physics, languages, cuisine, matters of taste and style, cases accepted, payment or not of cases accepted, their mutual schedule and calendar, what qualified as 'too dangerous,' and if he would be allowed to accompany Sherlock in his investigations or not.

2. To be fair, Sherlock would defer to John's experience on the subject of: human anatomy. Also, certain highly specific social situations.

3. Any physical relations would be at Sherlock's discretion and of his initiation. No exceptions.

4. John was allowed to express a polite, non-voting opinion on any of the above subjects, which Sherlock resolved he would at least consider; but he was not allowed to make that constipated face if he was overruled. Sherlock hated that face.

5. Most importantly, John was not to interfere with, impinge upon, cast aspersions towards, or otherwise denigrate the WORK, which must remain _inviolate_, paramount and **_sacrosanct_**.

Beside him, John's toe twitched against his calf.

Sherlock slid himself carefully into the circle of John's out-flung arm, imagining that they were locked into an embrace. But it was overly hot, not at all conducive to sleeping. Frowning, he withdrew again.

What would John be like, as a lover? Sherlock shifted onto his stomach to consider, although he was careful to maintain some level of contact between them.

John was clean and polite. He was considerate - a giver, by nature. Sex with John might be … less unpleasant than usual, he concluded, picking his way carefully through hazy thoughts which were usually so quick and clear.

Sherlock was not driven by his sexual urges in general; he was used to ignoring his body's demands, never fantasized, and had not enjoyed physical contact since he was a child. But he did know that pair-bonding hormones, such as were achieved through the various intimate forms of connection, would be necessary for maintaining the relationship in the long term. Therefore, he expected to participate in such activities with John.

So long as John would follow Sherlock's lead, it would just be manageable. Yes - Sherlock inched a little closer - that would be satisfying. Sherlock could _help_ him be a good life companion, just as he had trained him to be the perfect Assistant.

Sherlock could handle this.

The pre-dawn light filled slowly filled the room, and somehow, between one of John's whistling exhales and the next, Sherlock slipped into sleep.

* * *

><p>That night he had a strange dream. Usually Sherlock had no memory of his dreams, or if he vaguely did, he discarded them as irrelevant: just the hard drive, backing up data.<p>

But in this one, Sherlock was standing on the bank of the Thames - or at least he thought it was the Thames, but no part of it he recognized. In the background he could see various bridges, some which weren't even in London, all jumbled together.

Then the scene changed and somehow he was _in_ the river, far out from the edge, and the water was closing over him, muddy and cold. It was bright overhead, but he was sinking, barely even putting up a struggle. There was no sound. Instead of panicking, Sherlock let it happen. His eyes were wide open, his mouth gaping - he couldn't _breathe_, he was suffocating - the water was pressing in on him, everywhere -

And then he awoke, with the feeling that someone was pulling his intestines out through his naval.

His shorts were sticky and damp.

It was his first wet dream in twenty years.

.


	4. Chapter 4

.

**Dangerous Assumptions**

**Chapter Four**

_._

_._

It would be nice, thought Sherlock, as they rode together in the cab the next day, if John would make the effort to hold his hand, or at least sit as close as possible on the bench seat. But John was leaning against the far window as if he was hoping for a chance to escape out of it.

Not an encouraging sign.

They were travelling to view Moriarty's recovered corpse, which Sherlock had had frozen and hung up in a townhouse (after the head was cut off, of course), made to look like the victim of some ritual killer. Now they had been called in to solve the murder. It was all very tedious, so Sherlock devoted his time to more pressing problems.

That John was a sexual being was painfully obvious. By Sherlock's estimation, he had his first encounter young - far too young - and since then he'd consummated the act nearly every year, with increasing success. Ten separate sexual partners at least. All women: most likely the closest he'd ever come to a same-sex experience was being hit on by a man, probably at a pub, which he'd no doubt politely rebuffed with that good-natured humor that other people found so charming.

Sherlock gnashed his teeth: it had all been so _easy_ for John! Living at home with his physically demonstrative parents! For God's sake, he had an _older sister_, who no doubt brought girlfriends and the like around the family home from a young age! Sherlock had lived at a boy's school and had barely even _seen_ a woman until he was eighteen years old. His first experience of sex had been when a bunch of his schoolmates showed him a smutty picture in a magazine; a vacant-eyed woman with her hands down her panties. Sherlock had been repulsed, both by the picture and the boys' salacious interest in it. No wonder John had a healthy sexuality whereas Sherlock (apparently) was mostly aroused by the idea of drowning!

No, the dream had been merely disturbing, that was all. Sherlock didn't know why such images would arouse him or why his body got aroused without his permission. He did know that he needed to initiate physical contact at some point today, or risk John starting to waiver on the whole "relationship" endeavor. Those pair-bonding hormones would come in handy about now.

He glanced speculatively across the leather seat of the cab. John sat opposite him, backlit by the light of the window, seemingly glowing with health and youthful vigor.

And yet, John had made no overtures towards Sherlock – his boyfriend, one might arguably call him – in all of the forty-eight hours they'd been together.

He must be thinking about it. They had slept chastely together for an entire night. That very morning John had changed clothes in front of him, not even self-conscious about his naked body [most likely, Sherlock speculated, from years of close-quartered institutional environments; first rugby and then the military].

Sherlock had anticipated unwrapping his present himself, but he understood that he needed to be very careful, as John seemed skittish. Better to wait on that.

There had never been a strong physical attraction between them, but Sherlock was hopeful that he could be aroused by John if he decided to be. His brain was fully in the driver's seat, after all. It was fortunate that in general he preferred male partners over female, mostly because he disliked women on principle (they were, as a group, far too emotional in his estimation – always with the talking, the _feeling_ … it was extremely tiresome).

He needed John to think of him that way, come to him to satisfy _those kinds_ of urges, if their partnership was to succeed. It was just too unlikely, at least in Western culture, that two men who were not sleeping together would be able to give their relationship the kind of permanence and prominence that Sherlock required from John. John would never accept that he could live happily celibate – sooner or later he would seek out other sexual partners, and then he would naturally pursue those connections in preference to the one he had with Sherlock.

No. That could not be allowed to happen.

But how did one go about indicating their willingness to engage in such acts? His past partners, for various reasons, had never required invitation. And although Sherlock was a fair hand at seduction, it was mostly with strangers, within the context of a case. Surely his pre-existing relationship with John precluded the acting of a role; John, for example, already knew that his name was not Francisco Demingo, and that he was not an international jet-setter and heir to a gold mine.

Sherlock opened his mouth to initiate a conversation on this subject, but found it unexpectedly difficult. John's placid expression, fixed on the passing streets outside the window, was not inviting. Anyway, what would he even say? _John, if you wished to engage in sexual acts with me, I would not be completely opposed to participation. If you would agree to a few guidelines and took a shower first._

That did not sound right. There were rules about introducing these topics, rules which Sherlock had never been privy too.

Perhaps John would merely require some guidance, as he did in most things. Truth be told there _was_ a particular intimate activity that sounded to Sherlock like a good place to start, and which could probably be said to be his personal 'favorite'; in fact, they could proceed right now if they wanted to (Sherlock had heard of such things – the public nature added to the pleasure of the participants – and John liked danger…). But the question seemed awkward to propose.

_-John, would you care to fellate my penis?_

No, he couldn't. It wasn't at all the thing. Perhaps when they got home, Sherlock consoled himself: he imagined them standing together in a cleared-off section of the flat [text to Garry:_ Plz Clear off section of flat – SH_], possibly over tea, after John had finished fussing about the leftover lo mein that Sherlock wasn't eating.

_- After you tidy up the tea things, perhaps you wish to perform oral sex on me._

Sherlock contemplated, with some satisfaction, a vision of John on his knees, face buried in Sherlock's lap. Perhaps he could lay one hand on John's head – not pressing him down (Sherlock knew people didn't like that) – but just keeping pace with him as he moved. That would be satisfying, he decided. Of course John would have no experience at performing this specific act (Sherlock had determined that within moments of meeting him), whereas he, Sherlock, had been the recipient on two separate occasions. So John would require patient instruction, which Sherlock would provide, with sensitivity and kindness. The thought of what a considerate lover he would be made Sherlock feel almost proud of himself.

"Sherlock? Were you planning on getting _out_ of the cab?"

Sherlock blinked. They were at the townhouse already, and John was standing at the door, peering in at him quizzically.

Disoriented and – horrifyingly – somewhat aroused (again! Unthinkable!), Sherlock scrambled to get out of the back seat, almost losing his footing on the high curb as he unfolded his long frame. The car door was already swinging down to strike him.

"Here," said John, nudging him out of the way so it fell harmlessly onto John's own hip. He extended a hand and Sherlock clasped tight hold of his wrist to regain his footing. "Be more careful, daftie."

They got out and Sherlock trailed after John, unexpected confusion welling through him. He always found himself disagreeably affected when John was nice to him; it left him feeling so _flustered_.

* * *

><p>"Molly, have you had many sexual partners, would you say?"<p>

They were standing in the lab while Molly collected skin samples from the unidentified corpse. There had been nothing of interest to see at the crime scene (as Sherlock had been 84 per cent confident that there would not be), so they were now back at the lab examining what only Sherlock knew were the frozen remains of Jim Moriarty.

He had left John outside with Lestrade – idiocy loves company – so it seemed rather a good time to gather data. It helped that Molly was a particularly un-intimidating woman, and he felt able to share his feelings with an unusual degree of freedom.

"Erm … sorry?"

To Sherlock it did not seem at all inappropriate to discuss this topic with someone who was known to have a crush on him. Frankly, Sherlock suspected that Molly could offer some useful pointers about how to initiate the fellating, having no doubt been on the receiving end of such requests before.

Also, as she had prior experience at being in an extremely unequal relationship with a man who was probably repulsed by her need for romantic affection, she ought to be able to provide unique insight into the situation.

As she pointed a modified space-heater in the vicinity of her ex-boyfriend's frozen torso, Molly flashed a slightly anxious smile in Sherlock's direction.

"I was just wondering, as it relates to my own circumstances," Sherlock clarified.

"Oh, yes, I heard that - you and John – you're a couple, now?" Her voice soft and shy. Of course, word would have spread quickly around the Yard; officers of the law were terrible gossips.

(Sherlock had announced their new status, loudly, in the middle of the crowded murder scene).

"Yes, it's true," said Sherlock.

"I see. Congratulations!" Molly tried to look cheerful, but the slight downward turn at the corner of her eyes indicated otherwise. Sherlock wondered if he would still be allowed unlimited access to the corpses now that Molly knew her chances of being with him were minimal. That would be unfortunate.

"I'm … I'm very happy for you two," she said, her voice was stronger now, her smile more sincere.

"Thank you, Molly," he said graciously.

"I didn't – um, don't take this the wrong way, but I didn't think that you and John were ga –, uhm, that you were _that kind_ of friends," she said.

"It's very new," Sherlock agreed.

"Well, I'm sure the two of you will be very good for each other."

That was a very strange way to put it. "Er, I suppose so," said Sherlock doubtfully.

"It's exciting." She peered up at him through the brown curtain of her hair. "I really wasn't sure that you would be looking for that kind of thing?"

"Oh. Well, yes, my thinking has evolved over time," Sherlock agreed, watching as she sliced thin strips of skin from the soles of the frozen feet. Collecting samples for DNA evidence? "I find that our society is largely not set up for single people. It's difficult even to buy food in small enough quantities. Social events are largely designed for couples, as is so much of our infrastructure … medical systems, for example. Even things like vacations, living expenses, eating out," _confronting sociopathic murderers_, "the division of household chores."

"John says you don't do any chores," Molly noted. She was a reader of John's blog.

"Yes, well. Regardless, there are a wide variety of benefits that are better suited to couples or families," said Sherlock abstractly. "I could name hundreds if examples, to say nothing of all the psychological advantages of pair-bonding in humans. And of course there is the security in old age or infirmity."

Sherlock glanced down at the ring he was wearing on his right hand: rough-hewn silver, with the outline of a snake engraved in the side. Fretfully he twisted it around his index finger.

_-Theyll eat u alive. _

_-Theyll stone u 2 death._

_-ull die all alone :)_

He clenched his teeth and forced the thoughts from his mind.

"Maybe I'll take up internet dating," said Molly, sounding demoralized.

She turned back to the corpse to test the resistance of its chest with her scalpel, but it was still too solid to cut. Frowning, she adjusted the heating unit.

"The truth is, I am not – a hundred per cent practiced at the art of romantic relationships," said Sherlock casually, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Molly froze, which Sherlock interpreted to mean that she was listening carefully.

"I do not always know how to best proceed," he said. Specifically, he did not know how to succeed at making John desire him sexually.

"Are you asking me for medical advice?" asked Molly, very delicately. "Um, intimately speaking?"

"What? Oh. No. Thank you, Molly, I have sodomized a man before," said Sherlock.

Molly went very red and started violently coughing. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry," she managed, gasping for breath. "So you were looking for some suggestions …?"

Sherlock sighed. "I've had sex," he said, "but I've never had a _friend_ before. It seems to change the situation."

When he next looked up, Molly's face had gone soft, the way it did when she thought about kittens, or whatever else she thought about while she was down here among her decomposing remains.

"Well," she said finally, "I wouldn't worry too much about that." She bent to examine the feet of the corpse. "John is already very fond of you. I mean, I hadn't, urm, I hadn't thought your relationship tended in that direction, but there's no doubting his affection - I mean, all this time he's lived with you, gone with you on cases, tried to keep up with you, right?"

Sherlock watched her cut another piece of skin off the man she had presumably once tried to seduce into her bed. Was that for trace evidence, then?

"Well, yes," he said. He supposed he should have expected her to be familiar with sexless relationships, given her dating history. "But that's not, ah, that's not exactly the issue in question."

"I think you can trust John to take it at the right speed," Molly said, diplomatically. "That's the whole idea behind relationships, that you can just, um, let your guard down, like? And help each other? And you don't need to be on edge anymore, because you're, you know, you're together, you can just relax and let the other person back you up. D'you know what I'm saying?"

"No," said Sherlock thoughtfully. "Not in the slightest."

"Right." Molly sighed. "Well I suppose my advice is just to talk to John about how you're feeling. Because, erm, good communication is – you know, it's very important, in a relationship."

"Hmm." Sherlock looked moodily at the frozen, headless corpse and then back up. "I'll consider your suggestion. Good chat, Molly. I suppose I'd better be off. Have fun with – ah, you know." He nodded at the decapitated body and spun on his heel, his coat flaring behind him.

"Um – thanks?"

With barely a wave he stalked out of the lab with the tails billowing behind him like a cape.

Molly watched him leave, her brow a little furrowed - then shook her head in perplexity and returned her attention to stripping the remains of the mysterious John Doe.

_Such_ an interesting case.

* * *

><p>Collecting John was not difficult, and neither was steering him down the hallways of the Yard; they needed to get home so they could attempt Sherlock's latest scheme. He was in a great hurry and John was scurrying to keep up, a task made more difficult by his short little legs, which had to move at twice the speed to match pace.<p>

They emerged through a side door and Sherlock was thinking how easy things were going – the murder achieved with barely a hitch, the cover up going along swimmingly – when John suddenly slammed into him from behind, knocking them both down to the sidewalk. All the air was pushed out of him and the cement crushed cruelly against the bones of his hip.

For one ridiculous moment he thought perhaps John had been overcome by the view of his sexy backside as he walked.

But then he heard the distinctive sound of a bullet impacting with a brick wall and put the whole thing together; they were being shot at.

Oh, _fascinating_.

Sherlock wanted to look at the point of impact – somewhere behind them and slightly to the left, if he was any judge, impossible to know if the bullet really would have hit them – but John was still on top of him, refusing to let him up. One arm was wrapped tight around Sherlock's waist, pulling him in to John's body, and the other was buried in his hair, pressing his face to John's chest. Sherlock choked against the suffocating fabric of his shirt, but the grip was relentless, and only tightened as Sherlock tried to move.

"John?" Sherlock tried to squirm out from under him, but John merely pressed down with more of his weight. It ground Sherlock's already-battered side further against the sidewalk, and he muffled a cry and fell still, breathing wetly through John's shirt.

"John!"

John's head was tucked over his own, hunched over his body, his chin pressing into his crown. "Stay down, it's alright, shh," he muttered, his voice strange and tight. "Just stay down." The fist in his hair was immovable.

Well _of course_ he was going to stay down – he wasn't an idiot. Keeping low he managed to turn in John's arms and eventually work himself free, looking up to demand an explanation.

Instead he was confronted with the sight of John, face white as a hospital sheet, one hand clamped around his own shoulder.

Oh _shite_. Sherlock hadn't even heard the second shot - was it a different gun, one with a silencer? It made no sense. But here John was, just as Moriarty had predicted – likely bleeding out as they spoke, killed trying to save Sherlock's life.

_Please God, let him live._

"Let me see, John," Sherlock demanded, which was unwise, as it was better to keep pressure on a penetrative injury. Wasn't it? But Sherlock had to see the wound, had to know how bad it was. Perhaps it was only a graze. There was no blood on the back of his shoulder, so did that mean the wound was minor, or just that the bullet was still inside him? "John. Stop. Let go, let me see."

It was terrible to feel the fluttering panic in his chest, the frantic need to stop up whatever part of John that was bleeding. Sherlock hated to panic, and tried to avoid it whenever possible. But honestly, who could have helped themselves, when they went from being huddled tightly in John's strong arms, to being turned lose in the cold street and suddenly realizing that John was shot? It was very disconcerting!

And really, _what were the chances_ that it would be that same shoulder? Could they honestly not catch a break?

"John, let me see!" But when he tore John's fingers away, the fabric underneath was perfect and whole. _Not real_, Sherlock realized in time with his pounding heartbeat - _not real_, _not real_ – John was _fine_, it was some kind of psychological reaction of the kind to which John was apparently prone.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John was asking, his voice faint. Idiot! Moron! Sherlock was perfectly alright_, _he'd seen to that, hadn't he, using his own body as a shield. It was _John_ they needed to worry about, for God's sake, John who could have been shot and who was now squatting helplessly on the sidewalk, face clammy and pale, no doubt going into shock.

"Am _I _- honestly, John. Yes, I'm fine." John's teeth had quietly started to chatter. His eyes were still vacant.

"Sorry," he managed. "I think I'm a little off my head."

Flashback, brought on by the PTSD, of course. So stupid of Sherlock to think otherwise. He wanted – suddenly, incongruously - to pull John against his own side, warm him up and calm him down, but that was not Sherlock's strength; instead he was forced to get them moving. They were not safe where they were.

He gripped John's arm and hustled him out from behind the car, ignoring his protests, and forcibly dragged him into the crowd milling in the street. Walking on his jarred hip proved to be unexpectedly painful, but Sherlock forced himself to ignore it. He had to get John home, quickly, before the psychological symptoms worsened and John became useless. Hopefully the sniper, having missed his chance, was long gone or wouldn't be able to shoot them amongst so many people.

They were entering the train station when Sherlock was distracted by an irritating buzz. His phone - there was a new message. Impatiently, he flicked it open.

_-Hello, Pet_, it said.

_-Soon ur both going 2 be dead _:)

* * *

><p>While he had John safely stashed under the awning of a mini market, Sherlock paced frantically - compensating for a prominent limp - and stared at the screen of his phone.<p>

_-Did you like the sniper?_

_-I thought it was a nice touch 4 poor John._

_-Must be a nasty shock for him, almost getting shot again _

_-& so soon after the last time, too … _

They were all from Moriarty's number.

Sherlock texted Mycroft first. He had to check that the flat was secure before he took John there. If someone was trying to kill them, they would start at 221B.

_-No security violations within the past 72 hours_, said Mycroft's text.

Alright. The flat was safe. They just had to get back to Baker Street. Then John would be fine, not staring sightlessly through him the way he did when Sherlock reclaimed his arm and urged him to start walking.

He disliked that the war was still so present for John. Sherlock would prefer that it was something that had happened to him a long time ago, long before he met Sherlock, that merely taught him some useful skills and gave him a slightly more worldly outlook than the average. An interesting story, nothing more.

The short walk to the flat was interminable - pock-marked with places for a shooter to hide, with his side angrily protesting each step. John seemed antsy even at their own front steps, continually pausing to look back towards the street. Sherlock forced him up ahead of him, covering his back, and hobbled up after him.

_Who could have done this?_

Sherlock wasn't stupid: there was no question that Moriarty was dead. Sherlock could have held his skull in his hands, if he wanted to.

And this was no ghost.

Clearly the texts were written by somebody else. Even the cadence of the words was different. Also, there were several missed opportunities to miss the use of shortcuts. Jim had insisted on inserting them at every opportunity, perhaps knowing that it grated on Sherlock's nerves to read them, like nails on a chalkboard. He'd _exaggerated_ their use, deliberately, never missing a single possibility for a letter substitution or an abbreviation. Another of his games.

This new person didn't follow the pattern perfectly.

Somebody with access to Moriarty's phone, obviously, or at least the same number. The phone hadn't been among Jim's effects. It must be someone from within his organization. Somebody who wanted him to believe that it was Moriarty, or at least make the connection to the dead man.

Somebody who knew of his games with Sherlock, somebody who knew of their ongoing conversations. Not even John had ever known about those texts.

A follower, an acolyte? The second in command, stepping into the shoes of a fallen leader.

He would have to send a request to Mycroft, asking for additional security: his pride could wait until they weren't at risk of being picked off from an adjoining rooftop. He'd have to keep John in the flat. Inconvenient.

But really, Sherlock meditated, it was all rather _perfect_. He already had a murder to cover up, and now here was a murderer on the loose. The solution was obvious: kill two birds with one stone, and blame the former on the latter. Simple and elegant.

Really, as long as he could keep them both from being killed, he couldn't have planned it better, himself.

.


	5. Chapter 5

.

**Dangerous Assumptions**

**Chapter Five**

_._

_._

The first stroke of luck came as Sherlock was casting about for a reason to keep John in the flat. There had already been two new texts, while he was in the kitchen getting John a glass of water:

_-You cant hide him forever._

_-Soliders die young u know. _

These latest messages confirmed that the threat was aimed specifically aimed at John, not Sherlock – whoever Moriarty's second in command was, he was planning to target John first.

Unfortunately, John had already started making noises about taking a walk, wanting to _clear his head_. Just because Sherlock had tried to apply a very practical, proven method to treat his anxiety after the shooting, and allowed him one rather awkward hug.

Sherlock had already noticed that John reacted well to the application of a hand to his shoulder, or the back of his neck. That was to say, as long as it was _Sherlock's _hand. It was rather peculiar, for a man with no previous experience with homosexuality, and who was otherwise rather reserved. John had willingly pulled Sherlock into his chest and sat there, perhaps unaware of the fingers trailing gently up and down Sherlock's knobby spine.

For all he had already decided to accept John as his lover, it was difficult for Sherlock not to tense up or to flinch away if someone touched him. It had felt … unfamiliar, to be held in an embrace. Constraining, and rather uncomfortable. Sherlock was not quite sure he liked it, but it was not as repellant as he might have expected, either.

It had been better when John let go and they moved apart.

But then John had gotten annoyed for no reason, just because Sherlock had merely _mentioned _his mental disorder (a mistake he would not be repeating): "_Light physical contact is supposed to be calming for people with post-traumatic stress disorder_."

"So that's what this was about, then?" John had asked, backing away from Sherlock like he'd been struck. "Just trying to help out _poor_, _pathetic_ John?"

Which wasn't even what Sherlock had said! And before he could even identify the precise source of John's discontent, he had started gathering up his things as if he was going to _go back out_. Which could not be allowed to happen. Someone out there was trying to kill John, and he was completely ignorant of the danger (Sherlock had declined to tell him, partly because it would probably have entailed explaining the entire Moriarty-text-message situation, which would have no doubt been a long and unpleasant conversation for everyone, and also because it seemed unwise to upset John when he was clearly on uncertain ground, mental-health-wise).

Anyway, Sherlock didn't even know who the enemy _was_ yet, and wouldn't know until Mycroft provided him with the necessary surveillance data. John didn't need to be wandering about just now, getting himself shot at again.

So, it really was a fortunate coincidence that, when he got up from the settee to argue, Sherlock found that his bruised hip, which had been making its presence annoyingly felt for the past several hours, had now tightened up considerably, so that he could hardly move. Some sort of skeletal-muscular injury, no doubt.

This was absolutely _ideal_: John would not leave Sherlock unattended for even a second, if Sherlock was injured. That was in line with his caring nature, to say nothing of his professional responsibilities.

"John, wait!"

His flatmate turned back, still visibly irritated. "_Yes_?"

"I hurt my side," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"My side. When we ducked from that sniper, my side was injured against the cement. It feels like it might be serious."

John was understandably suspicious. "You're just noticing this now?"

"It didn't hurt before. It must have been the adrenaline. But now it does." Sherlock paused for dramatic emphasis. "Ouch."

John didn't seem sold, but he did agree to examine the injury. "Sit sideways on the couch, and let's take a look," he said, reluctantly.

"Not here, in the middle of the living room," said Sherlock, thinking of Moriarty's miraculous ability to eavesdrop on conversations in that part of the house. "Help me up, we'll go to my room."

There was an awkward moment when John pulled Sherlock's arm over his own shoulder to help him up the stairs – it was too close, their whole sides pressed together from knees to armpits – but eventually he found himself seated on his own bed, with his shirt off, while John examined his side.

Sherlock itched at the contact, at the scent of soap (regular Boots brand, bought on sale or discount at least a year ago).

But it was worth it, to keep John entertained in the flat.

John's hands drifted South, towards the injured hip. "Pants," he ordered, calmly.

Sherlock's heart-rate sped up exponentially. _Now? _It was really too soon for that kind of thing, wasn't it?

This injury lark wasn't panning out quite as he'd anticipated.

"It's alright, Sherlock, I'm a doctor," said John knowingly, perhaps reading his expression of panic. "I promise I'm not having any prurient thoughts here. You should have told me sooner if you were hurting, it could be something really bad. Here, I'll do that, stop." Sherlock had been trying to help open the belt of his trousers, but reluctantly he dropped his hands and leaned back on his elbows.

John worked his trousers down over his hips, and then slid his boxers out of the way too. Sherlock knew that he perceptibly tensed.

"Hip pointer," said John, taking no notice. He was focused on the wicked bruise that wrapped around Sherlock's side, an angry dark purple. "Get them from a rugby tackle, usually. Sorry about that, mate."

"It's fine," Sherlock muttered, wishing he were anywhere else, other than lying exposed to John's gaze. "Better that than a bullet to the brain."

But John's brow was creased with nothing but expert concentration. "Could have fractured the iliac crest," he stated. "The pain comes from the cluneal nerve, it runs right along the edge of the bone here." His fingers traced the ridge of Sherlock's pelvic bone, and Sherlock forced himself not to shrug away. John was clearly being careful, feeling the swollen tissue, and although it still hurt, Sherlock didn't protest. "We'll try anti-inflammatories and the good painkillers, okay?"

Sherlock made himself nod calmly. This was merely a _medical examination_, he reminded himself, nothing more – Sherlock had been to a doctor before, and God knows he'd been to the A&E enough times. It was nothing he couldn't handle. Just last month, John had treated the burns on his hands from when that hydrogen sulphide experiment exploded. This was only more of the same, merely in more intimate location, that was all. No cause for alarm.

But then, that was before he knew John *loved* him. Maybe that made a difference, somehow.

"I'm just going to check the blood flow," John murmured, and then his fingers slipped into the vulnerable crease inside Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock barely swallowed a grunt, restraining himself from kicking out with only extreme self-control. John's fingers were shockingly warm, the touch so intimate that Sherlock instinctively wanted to move away from it. "Almost done," John soothed, apparently registering his distress. His voice had gone low and gentle.

It did help, a little.

His hands moved away, and Sherlock relaxed against the bed in relief. He took deep breaths while John checked the joints of his knee and his foot.

"Good," said John, examining the bend of his ankle.

Sherlock kept quiet, letting him work. It wasn't so bad, being the subject of John's inspection. John's hands were confident and sure. Familiar. Like an expert mechanic, checking over an engine. It seemed like he could see straight through Sherlock's skin, immediately finding what was awry. Almost anyone else, he doubted he could have tolerated.

At last John him go, pulling his boxers back into place.

"Let's get you into bed," he said, "and we'll start you on the icing, eh? And I have a heat pack for later."

Plan successful. John wasn't going _anywhere_.

* * *

><p>Remarkable how, upon finding out he was hurt, John went from being cross about some stupid comment of Sherlock's, to treating him with such care and consideration that Sherlock could hardly believe he was dealing with the same man.<p>

The injury was not as serious as Sherlock could have hoped; some broken ribs at least would have been preferable. But for the past week he had been the recipient of all of John's attention: periodic ice and painkillers, or a hot water bottle, or weak tea and toast if he complained that his stomach was upset. It was the perfect excuse to keep John within reach - Sherlock made it clear that he would not eat properly, or rest, or make any effort to take care of himself, if John was not around to make him do it. Even in his sleep he made sure to lean against John, so that he could not possibly sneak away.

Sherlock had not expected to enjoy this necessity in the least - it was merely what was required, after all. But over time, Sherlock began to find the attention calming; John would buzz around him making a fuss, and all Sherlock had to do was sit quietly. John was careful with him, gentle. Didn't push him for conversation, and kept his touches professional.

It was almost as if there was some sort of furry woodland creature living in his chest, that rather liked to be looked after, and John spoke this creature's language. He couldn't resist being comforted when John wrapped him in a warm blanket, and talked to him softly, and kept his touches light and careful.

"Alright?" asked John, coming in from the other room.

"Yes, fine."

"Do you want a shower?" asked John. "I've got the chair set up for you, so you wouldn't have to stand the whole time."

He considered. John would have to help him in and out of the tub, so he would not have any opportunity to leave the flat. He lifted an arm and sniffed himself discreetly - ugh. "Yes," he decided. "A shower sounds acceptable."

So John took Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and helped him up – so sweetly patient, matching Sherlock's pace, pausing every other step – and escorted him into the bathroom. There he got Sherlock seated on the loo while he bustled about setting Sherlock's shampoo and conditioner within easy reach, and fetching a new washcloth and the soap. Then he stood as a prop while Sherlock, fully clothed, struggled to step over the side of the tub.

"Easy," he coaxed, eyes fixed on the progress of Sherlock's calf, "lean your weight on me, here we go, take your time. There you are."

For a second they stared at each other, unmoving.

Then John flushed a lovely rose color and looked away. "Right. Well, I think you've got it from here." He cleared his throat. "But let me know if you need anything, yeah? Call me if you need help getting out. Your towel's just there."

The hot water felt wonderful on Sherlock's muscles, stiff not so much from his injury as from underuse during his 'recovery.' He emerged feeling invigorated and found clothes laid out for him on the counter: a loose, soft cotton shirt (John's, old, far too large – most likely kept because of its utility when John's shoulder was practically immobile), and a pair of baggy pajama bottoms. He dressed and limped carefully to his bedroom.

"Alright?" called John.

"Yes, fine." Sherlock took up his laptop and sank into the desk chair. Immediately the screen flickered and went black; he scowled as a familiar window popped up and began to load. This was one reason he preferred to misappropriate John's laptop instead of using one of his own; Mycroft was less likely to hack such an unsecure computer and risk exposure (John's password was _password)_.

Unfortunately John's laptop was in the kitchen where he had been looking up _chicken soup recipes _and as a result, Sherlock was stuck using his own. Which was now displaying an image of his brother's head and shoulders. The background was discretely concealed by the lighting, but it was possible to make out a shot of a blank cubicle wall.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock."

"Mycroft." Sherlock made the name sound like a curse word.

"I will send round Anthea with the files we have on Moriarty's organization," said Mycroft importantly. "You'll see it's a fairly substantial number of documents, but I'm confident that our answers are somewhere within those pages."

"Good."

"If I may ask, how is dear John faring?"

"He's _fine,_" said Sherlock mutinously. "You needn't concern yourself."

"And how are you, Sherlock? I was informed of your injury, but" - here Mycroft sniffed - "it doesn't appear to be very serious."

"It's mainly useful as a pretext to keep John in the flat," Sherlock admitted stiffly.

Mycroft was studying his expression through the screen. "Which brings me to my next question."

Sherlock would have dearly liked to shut the computer and walk away, but Mycroft was no doubt holding information back until the end of the conversation, in order to prevent just that.

His brother knew him too well.

"Oh, please do enlighten me." Sherlock's tone was dry enough to suck moisture from the air.

"What exactly are you doing with Doctor Watson?"

"What do you mean _doing _with him? I'm not _doing _anything!"

"Spare me the theatrics, Sherlock. I am hearing the most extraordinary reports of your behavior."

"Is it so ridiculous that John should want to become my boyfriend?" Sherlock demanded. "Nothing in your precious surveillance has ever allowed for this possibility?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Shall we consider Doctor Watson's sexual orientation – ?"

"A person's sexuality is far more fluid than one might imagine," said Sherlock in his _bored, now_ voice. "The instinct to connect is far more powerful than the precise mechanism for doing so." He sniffed. "There would be very few people in this world who would perfectly heterosexual, if it came down to it."

"How shockingly insightful of you," said Mycroft blandly. "But I cannot understand is why you are allowing the farce to continue. What could you possibly be getting out of it? You don't even like other people."

And the problem was, Mycroft was arguably right about that.

"_You_ have suddenly decided to enter into a partnership?" Mycroft's mouth wrinkled skeptically. "_You_ value companionship, _you_ wish to engage in intimate acts? And with John Watson, no less?"

"That is so surprising to you, really? I am human, after all, whatever you may have suspected. And I'll have you know, John is an ideal partner, he's – quite easily managed."

Mycroft looked grim. "I see."

Sherlock persevered, aware that the things he was saying were not coming out exactly as he meant them, but unable to pinpoint exactly he was going astray: "Of course he's not my equal intellectually, but he's very supportive, and perfectly willing to follow my lead. As a romantic companion, he is acceptable."

"Well. That does sound like the makings of quite the _tendress,_ indeed. And - forgive my curiosity, brother - but tell me, does this passion also overflow into the Physical Realm?"

Sherlock knew that Mycroft was trying to discompose him, so he straightened his back and replied tersely: "Yes."

It was a lie. Sherlock's plans to introduce John to his sexual preferences had been derailed by the shooting and its aftermath. They hadn't even kissed - it was strange how the right moment never quite seemed to present itself.

"You. Enjoying intimate relations. You expect me to believe this."

Sherlock flushed angrily, knowing that to lie further would only betray more information he wished to conceal. "We have not had _sex_, if that is what you are asking, Mycroft. But I assure you, we will, very soon."

"Entirely your decision, of course. You need merely inform him of your intentions."

"As I have said, John does as I tell him to do," he said. "It's only logical that I will be the dominant partner in the bedroom too."

Mycroft smiled. "The fact that you believe in such archaic sexual concepts is evidence enough that perhaps you would be better served following _John's_ lead in that arena," he said dryly.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Really, must I always explain _everything_, Sherlock?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. "This has all been lovely, Mycroft. Did you have a point somewhere, or can we get to wrapping up this little chat?"

"Sherlock, you're very clever at solving puzzles," said Mycroft – from his expression it appeared that he was refraining from rolling his eyes, only on the basis of his excellent breeding. "You are shockingly observant. You have a truly remarkable memory." Although he was saying very complementary things, his expression suggested something along the lines of, _big whomping deal. _

"Thanks ever so."

"You are quite accomplished at manipulation," Mycroft added begrudgingly, as if that one hurt him more to give up. Perhaps he coveted that title all for himself. "You do have your clever tricks. And yet, for all your great accomplishments, you're not a very good human being."

That seemed harsh from someone who _started little wars_ to spice up a slow Thursday.

"Please get to the point," Sherlock requested, as politely as possible.

"How do you treat your Doctor Watson?" asked Mycroft blandly. "You belittle him, you manipulate him. True, he's only an ordinary sort of man, not nearly as clever as yourself – which is to say, he cannot remember the precise contents of a room when he leaves it, and is unlikely to notice the difference between the various brands of cigarette ash." Put that way, Sherlock's accomplishments did seem just a little banal. "But by almost every standard, he's worth ten of you. You could not do better – he could. Rather easily. In fact virtually every person of your acquaintance is more capable of valuing his good qualities. He is a considerate man. A good man."

"I know what John is," said Sherlock fiercely. "I don't need telling."

"Apparently," said Mycroft, "you do. And yet for some reason, he loves you. Yes," Mycroft added, seeing Sherlock sit up a bit straighter in his chair, "he does. Ordinary, unassuming little John Watson. And do you know what I would tell him, if I ever had the opportunity and thought he would listen? I'd tell him to find somebody else, someone less likely to accidentally _crush_ him without noticing. In the grand scheme of things, over the whole course of human life, great brains really do not count for very much. I would tell him you're not worth it, Sherlock, despite all your clever tricks."

"You wouldn't dare tell John anything of the sort!" said Sherlock, goaded into responding in spite of himself. "You wouldn't dare."

"My my, little brother, how terribly petty. How like a miser you are - like a dragon in a cave, curled around its precious treasure." Mycroft sneered.

For a second, Sherlock's long-stunted imagination flashed on an image of himself, snake-like and scaled, curled around the bright gold of John's hair. Not letting even the slightest glow escape the dark cave where they were hidden. He snarled – bad enough that Mycroft would lecture and insult him, did he also dare to make him _whimsical_? Really, it was the last step.

"I think you have made your excellent point as usual, Mycroft," said Sherlock. "Please do us both the favor of departing at once, so that I don't have to _burden you with my presence_ any longer."

But when he looked back Mycroft's face was lined and sad. "Brother, I don't tell you these things with any pleasure," he said. "Do you know what it's like, to watch you? To see you so close to the edge of a great treasure – the love of a good man – and watch you throwing it away?"

Strangely enough, Mycroft's words brought back one of the last things Moriarty had ever said to him … that he was throwing his pearls before swine. Except now John was the one with the pearls. Sherlock did not enjoy being recast as the pork.

They were silent for a beat.

"I want you to be happy," said Mycroft quietly, at last. "You are my brother. I want you to find peace in this world, and a place to belong."

- _Ull never belong anywhere, _Moriarty had said_. _

"But as long as you believe yourself to be better than everybody else, you will never find it."

Sherlock remembered the sight of his form master, a warn, faded-looking man, sitting behind his giant desk and frowning at Sherlock. _There's no doubt you're a very clever boy, young Holmes_. _But if you can't find a way to get along, you'll never amount to anything_.

"Do you want to know the truth," asked Mycroft. "I pity you."

"Go away," said Sherlock.

"Little brother –"

"Go away!" Sherlock's voice was tight, he was disgusted to find, in fact his face was hot and his eyes seemed to burn, he wanted to be left alone, he needed to find peace and quiet, to be able to _think_ …

"I will find you a gun to replace the one Doctor Watson lost," said Mycroft, gathering up his belongings on screen. His hand drifted towards the keyboard and Sherlock turned away, turning his face into his arm. "I will send over all the files that we have on Moriarty's organization within twenty minutes. Call me if you need anything further. And do be careful, Sherlock."

Then he was gone. Sherlock felt hot and miserable, his side aching, his head pounding now.

"John!" he shouted hoarsely.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John sounded like he was in the kitchen.

"I want more pills," said Sherlock. "I'm tired."

"Alright, daftie. Come here." John came into the room and helped him up, draping one of Sherlock's arms around his own shoulder, holding his free hand in place. "What's gotten into you, eh? You need a nap, is what you need. You cranky child."

But his voice was comforting, familiar, affectionate despite his irritation. His arm around Sherlock's waist was warm and tight. Sherlock leaned his weight heavily on John's shoulder and tried not to feel anything, not to feel, not to feel.

John got him sitting on the bed as Sherlock ignored his mutterings, pretending not to notice John's hand ghosting over his forehead to check for fever. When he was settled he turned his cheek up in a mute request. Obediently John bent to press a kiss to his cheekbone, his other hand brushing back Sherlock's unruly hair.

"Can I look at your hip?"

He always asked, no matter how many times he checked. "Fine," said Sherlock, without interest, shifting so that his torso was pointed John's direction. John's fingers, always so warm, immediately settled at his waist, pulling him out a little flatter, and then gently slid down the waistband of the cotton pants Sherlock was wearing in lieu of proper trousers.

Sherlock turned his face away, towards the wall. He still did not like to see his own pale, vulnerable belly exposed to John's hands.

"Looks good," John said, very gently pressing around the edges of the wound. Sherlock bit his lip, used to the inspection by now, and said nothing. "Okay, pills." John courteously pulled up his shorts and trousers, careful around the area of the injury, tugging the waistband high enough not to press on the bruised skin. Then he patted Sherlock's good hip reassuringly, and Sherlock felt the heat through the fabric.

He accepted the tablets John handed him and swallowed them without a word."Oi! With water, thank you very much." A cup was shoved into his hand, and Sherlock sipped.

"My back is sore," said Sherlock. "Rub it for me."

John had the face he got when he reached in the fridge for baby carrots, and got fingers. "Really?"

But Sherlock just nodded, allowing discomfort to flicker in his eyes, his pinched lips. John's expression cleared.

"Your back?" Sherlock nodded again and wordlessly turned away, letting John guide his arms out of the oversized T-shirt (_Blackheath Rugby: We Do It On The Pitch_). John's hands closed about his shoulders, gently leant him forward so his back muscles were pulled straight.

"Maybe you sprained something," he mused, lightly following the line of Sherlock's spine. "Where does it hurt?"

"Higher up," Sherlock muttered.

John's hands were careful, seeking out the imaginary pain. "Here?"

Sherlock nodded, would have agreed regardless. He just wanted John's attention, soothing and warm.

But John seemed to know instinctively that the problem was more emotional than physical, because instead of massaging hard, he just rubbed lightly up and down with flat hands, sweeping outward along Sherlock's collarbones.

"Maybe it's stress tension," he suggested, moving in slow circles. "Is this any better?"

"A little," Sherlock admitted.

"Is it the case?" John gently probed a lump nestled into the base of Sherlock's neck and Sherlock grunted, feeling his spine tighten. "Shh," John soothed, moving his fingers in a slow circle, working out the tension. "There, now."

"The case is nothing," Sherlock said. "Just a matter of going through some files. It's not going to be a problem."

John chuckled. "Good to hear," he said, still working. "I guess I'll stop worrying we're about to be shot in our beds, then."

"There's nothing to fear," Sherlock slurred, forcing the words out between slackening facial muscles. "Jim was a great mind … perhaps as clever as myself … this new opponent is much more common … merely tenacious."

"Yes, well," said John patiently, "a merely tenacious bullet is just as likely to kill you as a really clever one."

"'S true," Sherlock agreed, rather cheerfully.

John's hands trailed down his sides and his calloused thumbs traced the underside of his ribs. "Try and get some rest," he murmured. "Lie back."

Sherlock had once cut cocaine with morphine and spent a few pleasant hours drifting on the couch, letting his thoughts take over and spiral outwards in a widening circle.

He would describe the effects as similar.

In fact, if Sherlock was fanciful enough to imagine heaven - which he was not - it would be something like this, the dark confines of his bedroom, with John nearby, watching wordlessly over him.

He could not, with his admittedly limited imagination, picture anything which would please him more.

* * *

><p>A week later, while John taking a shower, Sherlock was lying on his back on the settee listening to the pipes squeak. He turned the snake ring around and around on his index finger, tracing the shape of its etched design.<p>

It had taken the further intervention of his hated brother, in the end - but he had a name. He knew who was trying to kill them.

He picked up his cell phone from the side table, where John had left it for him along with his pills and a glass of water, and replied to the last message from Moriarty's phone.

_-If you're ready to meet, be waiting at the flat tonight between 8 and 9 PM. – SH_

The water shut off abruptly and Sherlock saw a billow of steam come under the door. Then bathroom door opened and John stepped out, scrubbing his damp hair with a towel. He was dressed in jeans, his feet bare, button-up shirt half-undone. His eyes immediately sought out Sherlock, his expression open and affectionate. "Everything alright, then?"

Sherlock hit Send.

"Fine," he said.

.


	6. Chapter 6

.

**Dangerous Assumptions**

**Chapter Six**

_._

_._

Sebastian Moran had been Moriarty's lieutenant ever since returning to England from a four-year assignment with Blackwater, an international private military organization. Details of his time abroad were sparse, but it was safe to say that he was not building schools or missions.

According to Mycroft's research, Moran was lethal, but not malicious; he had never been reported to take pleasure of in the suffering of his victims, and would apparently refuse to engage in any form of torture (which Moriarty therefore handled personally).

Earlier that evening, Sherlock had broken into his house – Georgian, non-descript, but expensive, in a good neighborhood – while Moran was safely lured away by his text. He had left behind an innocent-looking black rucksack, sitting in plain view on the front settee. When the police arrived to search the house (and they would, as Sherlock had [anonymously] ensured it) even _they_ could not fail to discover the bag and the bloody contents within.

But now he was standing in front of the man himself, between the end of Moran's long rifle and John, who was carrying the Browning. He hoped neither of them would shoot: if John killed Moran, there was nobody else to pin the murder on.

If Moran killed John, Sherlock would have no reason to continue trying.

This was all part of the plan, Sherlock reminded himself: after all, he'd known Moran would be waiting for them back at the flat. It was the final piece of the puzzle.

"Idiot," said Sherlock, his voice bored. "Have you really failed to figure it out?"

Pale-blue eyes – predator's eyes, thought Sherlock – fixed upon him. Moriarty's second command was very tall, and must have towered over Jim. Sherlock wondered idly if he had hated it.

"I've been covering for you since that foolishness at the police station, but it was difficult," Sherlock said. "You've got to stop blundering about. We still have need of you."

Moran kept his aim unvarying – straight through Sherlock and directly at John's heart. Sherlock didn't doubt that he would kill them both without hesitation. Moran already knew that the game was up, and this was his last play. "What are you saying?"

"Your boss gave me a choice," said Sherlock; "Join him, or he'd kill both of us." He let his voice drop suggestively.

Moran licked his lips. "You're saying you chose to join?"

"Of course. I'm not an imbecile. I only apologize that I've never been able to contact you," said Sherlock mildly. "Jim was insistent that we never have any form of communication whatsoever."

It was just barely plausible, after all: there was no body (that could be positively identified), and Jim had been the kind of man who kept secrets even from his closest companions. Furthermore, before he died he had made it clear that he intended for Sherlock and himself build some kind of empire together.

"You've spoken with him? I haven't seen him – haven't heard from him since that night."

"Well, no, you wouldn't have," said Sherlock. "He's gone off to Switzerland, dealing with the assets." (There were always assets, in Switzerland).

At this point Moran only knew that he was being framed for the murder of an unknown man – he didn't know that the body was Jim's. In fact, Sherlock was banking on the fact that he didn't _want _to believe it, which would make him very easy to convince. Moran would want to believe that Jim was alive, still spinning his plots.

How was it possible, Sherlock wondered idly, for Jim - treacherous as an adder - to have secured the personal loyalty of even such a man as Moran? According to Mycroft's last informant in the organization [Stuart B, addicted to methamphetamine, murdered March 5th by person or persons unknown, in his home in the alley between Hargrove Street and West Harold] - they were widely considered to be _friends_.

[Sherlock had been the one to recommend Stuart B for the job].

It was fortunate that loyalty is as much of a weakness as it is a strength. If he could convince Moran that they were _working with Moriarty_, he could co-opt that unswerving devotion for his own purposes.

Of course, there was all the typical resistance to be dealt with - Moran wasn't stupid. Sherlock could see the doubt flicker across his face, the instinct just to shoot them both. But he was hesitating.

What he required was proof.

Sherlock felt something approaching regret as handed over the battered silver ring. It had become an object of some symbolic value. But Moran was the only person who would have given such a gift to Jim, so it was the perfect token of trust.

"He said you would understand the significance," he said.

And after that, it was easy. Sherlock explained that Jim was _cleaning house_, that he needed to close the casefiles on some recent murders so that his future activities would go unnoticed. One of the victims was 'an informant of Mycroft Holmes' who had been killed at the warehouse that night. Moran should confess to all of these killings and cooperate with the investigation. "You'll be rewarded, of course," said Sherlock blandly. "It'll all be sorted out on his return." Moran, he was confident, would wait faithfully, all his life.

Jim's second in command was a soldier, and he received his orders like a soldier: unquestioning, unsuspicious. He accepted his duty without complaint.

"Loyalty of your degree is very rare," Sherlock said.

And Moran had smiled faintly before ducking off into the night.

_Success!_ For the first time, Sherlock felt all the triumph of his accomplishment - resolving not one, not two, but as many as _six_ unsolved murders, at the same time concealing the murder _he himself _had committed! And all without any distasteful show of force - merely with the power of his brain, his brilliant, rational mind, unmatched now that Moriarty was dead (and Mycroft didn't count).

True, they had both almost died several times, but in the end the whole thing had really been handled quite nicely, if he did say so himself!

He turned to share his achievement with John, who still needed to be brought up to speed (as usual). This was done with a minimum of fuss, leaning together against the brick wall outside the flat.

"There are a few things I don't fully understand, myself," Sherlock admitted finally. "Moriarty was a terrible human being; he cared nothing for the wellbeing of his followers. Moran's loyalty was entirely wasted. He would have done better to use his brain and escape with as much of the financial gains as he could, not waste time trying to enact useless revenge." John didn't have any useful insights to offer, not that Sherlock had been expecting any. "Moriarty was a genius and a sociopath," Sherlock mused at last. "I suppose that combination can fool anybody."

"Sherlock," said John, "You're not a sociopath."

Well, who was talking about _that_? But before he could even sputter a correction, John continued over him: "I know what a sociopath is, Sherlock, and they don't _feel_. They don't have emotions for people. Maybe that's what you'd _like _to be, but that's not you. There's nothing wrong with your lizard brain. It's just your giant cerebellum that trips you up sometimes."

There was something not entirely complementary in that statement.

"At the pool, when I grabbed Moriarty, why didn't you run? Perfectly logical, throw the dumb stooge under the bus – he's just cannon fodder anyway, right? Would have been the smart play."

"Don't say things like that," Sherlock muttered. While John didn't have the same caliber of mind as Sherlock (practically nobody did) it was still uncomfortable hearing him refer to himself that way.

"But you didn't. You stayed with me."

Sherlock lost his temper - this was an entirely specious argument – it just wasn't _winning _if you lost your key piece. "Only because I wanted to get Jim!" he said.

But John just smiled. "Give it up, Sherlock, you're not fooling anyone - Lestrade knows it, Mycroft knows it, and I know it: you're actually kind of a good man. Sorry."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as the sentiment, but John's point wasn't entirely taken amiss. It was possible that at some point he'd begun identifying with Moriarty in a way that that wasn't entirely warranted; no doubt it'd been part of Jim's strategy all along.

Nor was Sherlock entirely immune to the charm of being thought well of, by John at least.

He glanced over and realized that his flat mate was shivering slightly with cold, and no doubt also in response to their recent peril - it seemed quite common for him to have a physical reaction in the immediate aftermath of a stressful event.

Well, since he had been doing so much better with the touching lately, perhaps this was a good moment to demonstrate some of those softer feelings that the poets sang about: "It's cold out here," he muttered, nudging in close to John's side. "Why are we standing about outside the flat like idiots?"

Generously, he tucked his own black coat around them both, carefully lining up their bodies (and damn, John really was most inconveniently short!). He'd seen this in a movie once, and heard it described as very romantic. Really, this was the ideal time for him, as the conquering hero, to express to John once and for all that he was ready to pursue the next stage of their relationship.

But when they were properly bundled up, he paused to judge John's response. He had gone very still – was that a sign of encouragement? Sherlock wasn't sure.

Then John tried to wriggle away. "Let's go in, then," he suggested.

No, that wasn't supposed to happen, Sherlock was almost certain of it; John was supposed to be relaxing into his warmth and strength. Before he could break free – and he was trying – Sherlock seized his wrist and held him in place. This was like a hug, right? John had once accused him of being bad at that, but Sherlock felt confident that he was doing it correctly.

"John -" he started, wishing this were going better. His flat-mate was rigid in his arms, warmer but no happier.

John's voice was doubtful. "_What_?"

Awkward, wretchedly awkward! Here he was, having outsmarted everyone, defeated all their enemies, and now he was foiled by merely the act of communicating a simple desire.

Somewhere along the way his whole conquering-hero bit had gone astray.

No, impossible that he would be defeated now, at the crucial junction. Sherlock was not shy, never had been – it was only _John_, for heaven's sake, there was no reason to be afraid. He just needed to _act_, to reach out and take what was in front of him. He knew, based on personal experiments, that confidence was the most attractive quality in a man.

But Sherlock hesitated, and despised himself for hesitating.

Finally, staring fixedly down at the top of John's head – where his hair was somewhat thin – he forced himself to raise a suddenly-trembling finger to gently stroke the apple of John's cheek. The skin there was very soft. His other hand he kept wrapped around John's wrist, his fingers long enough to encircle it completely. Slowly, Sherlock let his hand drop, hoping that somehow John understood what he was trying to communicate.

"John?"

But something had obviously gone wrong, because John wasn't leaning into Sherlock's hand, or offering one of the shy smiles that Sherlock had seen aimed at a hundred little dishwater blondes. In fact John was shaking his head as if to clear it, staggering back as though he'd taken a blow.

"John?" This close, Sherlock could _see _him hyper-ventilating, his chest moving too-quickly in and out in quick, shallow puffs.

"John!"

"Excuse me, Sherlock," said John, his voice gone strange, "I just … need a minute … "

Sherlock wanted to say something else, but he was stuck on John's name, as though it was the only word he could remember. And John was refusing his eyes, ducking back out of reach, and Sherlock's fingers closed on the empty air where his shirt sleeve had been.

He stared at his hands, stupidly, still expecting to feel the fabric of John's latest atrocious jumper, woolly from being put in the dryer at the Laundromat with all their other clothes instead of air-dried on the line as the label recommended.

"Give me a sec," John stuttered, "I just need to – check my phone, I probably ought to call Harry, she must be worried. Haven't checked-in in weeks! I'm just going to – take this, but I'll come right back. I'll see you later, yeah?"

Transparent excuses – it was obvious that John just wanted to get away from him.

The first terrible hint of doubt curled in its tendrils, ice-cold. Their interactions in the past weeks rolled through his mind at high speed: John was always affectionate, always gentle, but he'd none of his touches had ever communicated any _heat_ …

Was it possible that Sherlock had underestimated the power of simple, animal attraction?

No, it was unthinkable. John loved him, Sherlock was sure of it. Mycroft had confirmed it! There could be no question.

_But does he love you in the right way?_

John had had sex with only women in his lifetime; a review of his past lovers indicated that the people he was attracted to were modest and sweet. Neither terms that Sherlock was deluded enough to claim. There was no evidence that John had ever sought out a partner that was his intellectual or physical superior.

Perhaps he really had no interest in Sherlock in that way.

Sherlock felt sick.

John was stumbling away from him, still clutching the Browning in white fingers. He shoved the barrel of the gun into his waistband, tugging his jumper down over the bulge of it, and tottered backwards.

Helpless, hopeless: "John! Come back here!"

But John was gone, ducking around the corner with his head down, like a schoolboy dodging bullies (and Sherlock should know … he'd been a bit of a bully himself).

"… Come back," he whispered.

There was no answer.

Stupid, _stupid, _STUPID. He'd rushed it, gone too fast and now he'd gone and spooked John – the _one_ thing he hadn't wanted to do. Sherlock's stomach was cramping– he put out a hand to catch himself on the wall. Oh God, had he ruined everything? Would John throw him off, move out of the flat and into the arms of some insipid blonde, and have children and dogs and other horrible things ... everything would be _ordinary _and awful away from Sherlock, didn't he understand that?

This had all sounded so _easy _in theory!

And now John had gone off to God knows where [some place with alcohol, Sherlock suspected, likely within three miles of their current location, with an 80 per cent probability of being somewhere he'd been before …]

Before he could type any search parameters into his phone, he received a most unwelcome text from his brother:

-_Have you figured it out yet?_

Sherlock scowled. Clearly Mycroft was going to be cryptic and unhelpful, as usual.

_-Thought I told you to sod off – SH_

The next text featured a map display, pinpointing the location of a pub about three blocks to the Northwest. Sherlock recognized the name from a matchbook John had once left on the side table at the flat.

_-I don't require your assistance, Mycroft - SH. _

He could have found the location himself, thank you very much!

-_Little brother, I assure you, you do._

Sherlock put his phone in his pocket and stalked down the dark, deserted street. The pub was close - he tried to take comfort in the fact that John had not run far - but when he reached his destination he lingered outside, avoiding the streetlamp. Through the window he could see John's little figure, hunched over a sticky table at the back, an untouched pint in front of him.

He realized that he had nothing to say.

_-Alright, give me your advice – SH_

There was no immediate response, and Sherlock reflected on how typical it would be for his brother to refuse to answer him now, when he really required it.

_-I suspect I would be asking too much, to recommend that you be honest with your emotions?_

What kind of counsel was _that_? He had no idea what it meant.

_-Is it even possible for you to *speak clearly*? – SH_

Mycroft was the undisputed master at manipulating people towards his own ends: why couldn't he give Sherlock the secret that would allow him to get what he wanted from John?

_-Very well, here is my advice: stop trying to steer. _

_-Clarify. – SH _

Another long pause, and Sherlock gnashed his teeth. If his brother refused to share his knowledge in this area, the next murder was being framed on _him_.

-_You keep trying to lead John where you want him to go. You are not good at that. You should stop. _

Well, that was just plain insulting! He seized his phone and began to type invective, and then stopped, staring down at the screen in his hands.

_-What am I supposed to do instead? – SH._

But instead of hitting SEND, he hit DELETE. Then he walked into the pub.

"I must say, I can't recommend this course of action," said Sherlock, as he slid in next to John on the wooden bench. Yes, sticky and rank, just as he'd suspected.

John took the glass and drained about half of it.

"John, you shouldn't be drinking, you're _already thick. _Plus, alcoholism apparently runs in your family. It doesn't seem wise." An abortive twitch of John's hand encouraged him to reach for it and hold it between his own. "Come home instead." There, that had come out right: calm and rational.

"I'm not done yet," said John, his voice strained. "D'you want a pint? Barkeep! Another for my friend."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't like beer, and this establishment smells like feet."

"Sherlock …"

_Be honest with your emotions_, Mycroft had said. "What's the matter," asked Sherlock finally, fighting to keep his voice even. "Don't you want this?"

If John said that he didn't, what were the chances that Sherlock could really let him go?

"Go on, John," said Sherlock, quietly. "Just tell me. It's alright."

But still John was silent, studying their joined hands.

"John?"

The pause was interminable, and Sherlock found that he did not know, had no guess even, what John was thinking or what he would do. The chatter of the other patrons in the pub was killing him - he wanted to tell them all to _shut up, just shut up. _

Then John slowly raised his head, and for the first time met Sherlock's eyes. Carefully, he slid in closer on the bench seat and stretched up, bringing their faces together.

It seemed like something important was about to happen, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered instinctively closed. He felt John's warm breath on his face, and his heart-rate kicked up a notch.

But nothing happened. He held his breath, waiting, and still John didn't move.

Finally he cracked an eyelid for a quick peek. John was hesitating, only millimeters away. "John, are you _thinking?_" he asked skeptically, closing his eyes again. "Only I can smell something burning."

"You prat," said John, and now his voice was warm; Sherlock could _hear _the smile in his voice. Then he felt lips closing gently over his own, and sighed in immediate relief.

John didn't push him at all, just leaned lightly into him, while his thumb stroked over the back of Sherlock's knuckles in their lap. Their mouths nuzzled innocently together, as just getting to know each other, and Sherlock kept his eyes closed, afraid to do the wrong thing and put John off.

But eventually he had to pull back to ask, "So – not tossing me over, then?" Because it didn't seem like things were moving in that direction any more.

"I'm sorry," whispered John, and Sherlock couldn't understand what he was apologizing for. Sherlock was the one who had pushed him too hard, who had made things bad between them.

"I had a moment of panic," John said, "I was being ridiculous."

Well, if he _wanted _to take the blame … "Yes you were," said Sherlock, "but it's alright, I'm more or less used to it by now."

He wanted to go home and continue their explorations in private – obviously they needed to consummate the relationship as soon as possible – but knew John would insist on finishing their drinks first. So, he kept the conversation light after that, entertaining John with his deductions about the people around them (two philanderers, one petty thief; about average for a Friday night).

When John was finally ready to go, Sherlock gathered up his coat and their wallets, but found himself hesitating at the last moment. If the evening ended the way Sherlock intended, they would be inextricably linked from this point forwards. Sherlock was ready - he had made up his mind - but he could not forget his revelations in the alley regarding John's possible feelings.

"Are you going to run away again?" he asked eventually, wishing he could make eye contact, but finding it impossible to look any higher than John's chin. But he needed to know. "I had to think about it for almost ten seconds before I realized you'd be in here." And deal with Mycroft, horror of horrors.

This time John didn't keep him in suspense. He linked their smallest fingers together, and suddenly Sherlock recollected that he had awoken sometimes to this touch in the night.

"No," he whispered.

That was a promise, right? Sherlock would have liked to have that in writing. Instead he settled for throwing down cash besides their empty glasses and leading John out into the street.

* * *

><p>John made tea when they got home, and Sherlock sat on the settee and waited for it. He found himself unaccountably nervous: the sex wasn't exactly his favorite part of a relationship, but he knew it was necessary.<p>

_Stop trying to steer_, Mycroft had said. Well, that was all well and good, but did he understand how critical it was for these things to go well?

Sherlock looked over at John, who was setting up a tray in the kitchen. Every movements was practiced; he had made tea a hundred times in the exact same manner. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to relax. It was alright; John would take care of the details, it wouldn't be like last time. He focused on the tinkling of the cups and the spoon, which was infinitely familiar.

The next thing he knew was the sensation of John, knuckling the top of his head. Had he somehow fallen asleep? "Up," said John, his voice gentle and soothing. "Have a cuppa and then off to bed." John put down a tray with biscuits and tea and then quite deliberately selected a seat across the table, far from Sherlock.

Sherlock picked at the plate, noting that John seemed very interested in the state of his fingernails. Sherlock wondered if he was nervous about the night as well. It was a strangely reassuring thought.

"Eat something," said John, "and then you can sleep horizontal, in a proper bed." So Sherlock selected a biscuit and ate it slowly, then made his way through the tray with the half-formed instinct that finishing it might somehow improve his standing with his flat-mate.

Finally the silence became a little disconcerting, and Sherlock cast about for something to say. "How's the tea," he asked, feebly. _Idiot_! "Are you, ah, are you finished with it?"

John didn't even answer, which was not helpful.

"John! Are you listening to me? I asked if you were finished yet."

"Sorry. Right, yes." John jolted back to life and reached at once to clear up the dishes, careful to keep their hands from making any contact. He _was _apprehensive, clearly. Was he worried that Sherlock would not reciprocate? Was he still in doubt of Sherlock's desires and intentions?

When John had the hot teapot properly balanced (it would not do for him to get burned), Sherlock reached out to take his wrist and tug him closer. "Sit here, on the settee," he suggested.

This wasn't _steering_, it was just _helping_ _John_ _lead them in the correct direction_.

John gingerly complied, but he sat too far away. Patiently, Sherlock slid closer. "You can touch me," he said, hoping to sound reassuring. "I don't mind."

When John's only reaction was to let their knees brush together, Sherlock made an impatient sound and crushed himself up against his side, shrugging under John's arm and slouching down on the cushions so that they were of a height. Better.

John looked down at him. "Hello." He sounded faintly bemused.

Sherlock muttered something wordless in response, burying his face in John's knitted jumper and trying not to be nervous. It would be alright: John wouldn't abandon him now, having come so far. Anyway, he had promised. After a moment, John raised his hand and laid it softly on Sherlock's tense back, rubbing in slow circles.

This was what he wanted: John's care and attention, focused solely upon him. This was right.

John brought his face down to rest against Sherlock's hair, his temple, and Sherlock didn't move away. It seemed that this degree of physical contact was alright, as long as it was John.

Then John drew his face up and pressed a gentle, affectionate kiss to his pursed lips, repeating the action until Sherlock parted his lips to allow for deeper investigation. John tasted of curry. When had he eaten curry?

One of John's hands cupped his jawline, coaxing his mouth open, and Sherlock made a soft, uncertain sound as he felt a tongue slipping over his own. But John's tongue was polite, just tracing the inside edge of Sherlock's lips, feeling the ridge of his teeth. Sherlock tried to return the pressure, tried not to be distracted by concerns about John's dental hygiene. He wanted John to enjoy this. He wanted John to do this again, but not that frequently, perhaps. Sherlock tried to breathe through his nose and when he found himself panting when John pulled away.

John's cheeks were flushed when he sat back. "Is this alright?" he asked. "Too much? Sherlock?"

Sherlock licked his lips, unable to answer.

"Sherlock? Do you want to stop?"

"It's fine," he said, hoping that John understood what he meant: that he was committed, that he wanted to finish this tonight.

"Do you just want to sleep? Sherlock?" John squeezed his hand. "Come on now, don't make me guess."

It was impossible to say, _No_, _I would like to have sex with you,_ but Sherlock did manage to shake his head.

"Are you sure?" asked John; it was kind of him to double-check. "I'm tired too, you know. I could do with a lie-in. We could go to bed early if you'd like."

Well, at least going to bed seemed like a step in the right direction. "Alright," he said.

"Right. Come on, then, we'll go up – just to sleep. How does that sound?"

But Sherlock didn't need to be treated like a child: he understood what was happening perfectly well. "It's fine, John," he said, impatiently. "I'm tired, now. Can we go to bed?" He was confident he could communicate when they were lying together under the covers, what seemed impossible sitting on their settee.

"Sure." John stood first, then helped Sherlock to his feet, tugging him a little closer so that their sides were pressed together. This was a definite improvement over John's recent behavior.

He tried to prepare himself as he trailed after John.

What would John be expecting, here? Which acts would he want to initiate? Sherlock hoped he didn't try for anything _too_ ambitious, on their very first attempt ...

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	7. Chapter 7

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**Dangerous Assumptions**

**Chapter Seven**

_._

_A/N: I am a fussy editor, so for the past month I've been retooling the first six (now seven) chapters of this fic.__  
><em>I'm guessing that none of you readers out there in readerland would be able to notice any changes (eg my life has no meaning) but at least I can sleep at night.<em>  
><em>  
>.<p>

.

"Right," said John, when they reached the room. "You're exhausted, get undressed quickly, and we'll get into bed."

Getting undressed seemed like a positive step. Sherlock stripped down to his shorts and silently watched as John did the same. Then John turned towards the bed.

"Did you want a shower?" Sherlock asked politely. He generally preferred that his sexual partners be sanitary.

"Er, hadn't really been planning on it - why, do I smell?"

_Not very helpful, John_, thought Sherlock. He didn't think it was such a ridiculous request. "I just thought you might prefer it," he said stiffly.

"Um, okay, I'll just – go do that," said John, in a voice that meant he was willing to indulge Sherlock even if he didn't necessarily understand (Sherlock heard that voice a lot). "Be right back."

When he was gone Sherlock stood, staring at the bed. He should get in it, perhaps try to get himself ready. He still wasn't clear on what John was expecting, but he was trying to be open to suggestion.

He anticipated that John would probably wish to take the active role. This was not the relationship that Sherlock had originally envisioned, but it did seem to be the only one that was feasible; John was clearly more experienced and probably had less trouble being _honest with his emotions_, whatever that meant.

Sherlock had been the receptive partner before, but the experience was not one he particularly looked forward to repeating. With Mycroft – that tightwad – firmly in control of all of Sherlock's finances after the death of their father, Sherlock had run up a debt to a fellow University student named Victor Trevor. Victor had access to certain recreational chemicals that Sherlock had required to keep himself focused and motivated. With no money forthcoming, the situation had become decidedly awkward.

Victor had merely proposed a bartering system; a perfectly reasonable solution, in Sherlock's mind. One hour to completely erase the debt. He had consented.

In fact he could barely remember it, as Victor had considerately administered a very generous dose of some very relaxing substance. It had definitely improved the experience, made his body easily able to accept the penetration, and also gave him a convenient excuse for his failure to achieve an erection, which was usually a difficult thing to explain to prospective partners. But still, it was unpleasant. The feeling of his body being invaded was awkward and uncomfortable, even when he could barely feel the pain through the haze of the drugs. His first experience with that form of sex had also been his last.

But now John had returned wrapped in only a towel, and Sherlock reminded himself that he would have to get used to nudity again.

"Alright?"

"Yes, thank you, John." John slipped into pajama bottoms and crawled under the covers, but Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to join him.

"Ah. Feels good," said John, stretching out on the bed, and casting glances up at Sherlock, who still didn't move.

"Nice and clean now," he added helpfully.

Sherlock knew he should climb in, but somehow he seemed to be frozen. Finally John sat up to hook an arm under Sherlock's elbow, tugging him over to the bed. Sherlock could move again, as if the touch had made it possible. "C'mon, then, daftie," muttered John, kindly not remarking on Sherlock's fumbling effort to recline. "Lie down with me."

Then they were side-by-side under the covers. John switched off the lights and laid back against the pillows, and Sherlock waited tensely for him to make some move – but all he could hear was John's deep and even breathing. After a pause he inched up against John's heat, inviting him to commence. John obligingly slung an arm around his waist. "Get some rest, eh?" he whispered.

But Sherlock did not want to rest. He wanted John to get on with it.

Apparently John registered his tension, as he so often seemed to do. "It's alright, Sherlock," he said, moving a hand up and down Sherlock's cold arm, trying to warm him up. His voice was slowly bleeding into concern. "Just relax, it's fine."

"I _know_, John," Sherlock hissed, feeling his embarrassment welling up. He couldn't even do one thing properly.

With a reassuring pat, John curled in next to him, his breath leveling off again. Sherlock clenched his hands into fists: he did not intend for John to _actually fall asleep _here_. _

That he would need to make the first move was evident, whatever Mycroft said - he had to finish this tonight, or risk John changing his mind again in the morning.

Well, Sherlock had had several years of rather unexceptional sex with women (Sherlock did not have strong feelings for the opposite sex), not to mention a man or two - it should not be impossible.

He reached out with one finger to trace the hard ridge of John's arm, down the soft, vulnerable skin of his wrist. Was John finding this touch erotic? Was this working? It felt right to Sherlock. Mustering his courage he sat up in bed, leaning over John to explore more of his body in the dark.

Sherlock had always loved textures - the imprint of brick on his skin, the roughness of wool or burlap - but he had never applied this interest to a romantic partner before. His hands carefully traced up the contours of John's chest. He felt the hair under John's armpits, the smooth muscles of his shoulder, then the scar of the bullet wound where the skin was pitted with shrapnel.

Still John wasn't moving - this time Sherlock interpreted his stillness as anticipation. He hoped he wasn't fooling himself again.

He moved higher, over John's neck where he could feel the blood pulsing in his arteries, to his face, picturing the shape in his hands although the room was perfectly dark. Over the wide angle of John's jaw. There was no doubt that his ancestors were Britons, a mix of the original stout Saxon blood, with the compactness of the French line. John Watson, old and steady as England itself.

He lingered over the wrinkles around his eyes: the earliest sign, in the lab when they'd first met, that this was something more than an ordinary man. That he had seen things, things that most people preferred to believe didn't exist.

Inspired, he leaned forward and attempted to initiate a kiss of his own, although he wouldn't call that one of his particular strengths. It was easy to determine the position of John's slightly parted mouth by judging the distance (roughly 15 millimeters) from the base of his nose. However, John reacted badly to the application of Sherlock's tongue, sputtering as though he'd swallowed wrong. Perhaps Sherlock should have worked up to that.

He withdrew hurriedly, conscious that he'd once again made a misstep, but John reached for him and tugged him back. "It's alright," he muttered, "Just surprised me, that's all - it's alright, come back."

So Sherlock worked up his courage and leaned forward again. It was too dark to read John's expression, but he reached forward and - instead of kissing his mouth - carefully licked up over the bridge of John's nose. The tongue was much more sensitive than fingertips (although people frowned, Sherlock had found, on him licking corpses. Amateurs).

Eventually he withdrew, and there was silence, except for the sound of their panting breaths. Still he held his position, leaning over John's supine form, trying to make himself understand that John was _his_ now – his to touch if he wanted, his to explore, his to keep.

Then suddenly John reached up and grabbed him, his fingers tangling in Sherlock's curly hair, holding him still while mashed their mouths together. Sherlock grunted as John's tongue sank hungrily into his mouth, and he took a moment to identify this emotion as _passion_ – John's passion for him - showing in way he gripped Sherlock's shoulder, or nipped gently at Sherlock's lower lip before licking back up into his mouth.

Maybe John did want him _that way_.

He tried to process this turn of events as John released his hair and flopped back against the mattress. Sherlock's mouth was wet.

"Is that ... really how you feel about me?" he asked.

John didn't hesitate. "Yeah."

Slowly, Sherlock leaned forward to press a dry, uncertain kiss to John's temple, withdrawing immediately.

"John," he whispered. "You may penetrate me sexually, if you like."

_"What?" _Instead of being pleased, as Sherlock had hoped, it sounded rather as if John was choking to death.

It didn't seem like this was going to go the way he'd planned it, either.

"Yes," he said, "I don't mind."

"Well I would wish for a little more than _not minding_," said John, sounding distinctly unhappy. "Stop talking nonsense, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused. "Did you want me to take a shower first?" he asked, quite reasonably.

"_Not the issue, actually_."

"You don't want to?" asked Sherlock, trying to sound casual. "I only thought you would prefer it, as I assume you are inexperienced with receptive sex. Of course we can switch it up, if you would rather." Much to his own surprise, he was actually hoping this wasn't the case – given his recent track record with romantic overtures to John, he wasn't at all confident that he could pull it off, if he had to do the heavy lifting.

"I wouldn't rather," said John, rather hurriedly. Which was a relief.

"So there we are, then." Right? Was that a yes?

John got up and switched on the wall light, and Sherlock sat up properly and looked around, suspecting that the light might actually make things a bit more difficult. John came to sit next to him on the bed, looking diffident.

Oh, he wanted to _talk. _How disappointing.

The first issue addressed was Sherlock's sexuality, or lack thereof. Sherlock was quick to assure John that he did, in fact, enjoy sexual congress. Sometimes. At least theoretically he was certain he was capable.

John was also apparently concerned that they might be _moving too quickly, _which seemed patently ludicrous: there was really no time like the present for these things. Sherlock dismissed that objection immediately.

Then John questioned Sherlock's sexual experience, and had to be reassured that Sherlock wasn't unfamiliar with the basics of fornication.

Really, it almost seemed like John didn't _want _to sleep with him, and maybe wasn't even going to agree to it: Sherlock had to resist pointing out that there were loads of people who wanted to sleep with him, _thank you very much_.

But gradually, it became evident that John was coming around. Sherlock decided not to be offended about his lack of keenness.

"Alright," he said finally, his voice low.

There was that tone again: willing to do whatever Sherlock needed him to do, even if he didn't entirely understand why.

"Here, lay on your side for me," John requested. He curled behind Sherlock, guiding his top leg up to his chest, which Sherlock could feel opening him up. "This is a better position for you," John explained delicately. "It should make it - more comfortable."

Sherlock reflected that he should have expected John to treat this like a medical procedure.

"Good," John soothed, sliding down his shorts, slowly, giving Sherlock time to protest. Sherlock did not protest. He stroked one of his calloused, warm hands down Sherlock's side, over his high, narrow hip - lingering over the faded bruise – and then down to his stomach. "That's good, just relax."

John slid his own leg between Sherlock's, and Sherlock felt himself open wider in response. It was a little embarrassing to have John see him like this, but Sherlock supposed this was part and parcel of the whole activity.

One of John's hands moved over Sherlock's stomach and the v of his abdomen, sliding up and down in reassuring circles, his fingertips just brushing over the coarse hair that grew around his groin. Sherlock turned his face into the pillow, not wanting to watch, and hoped he would be able to maintain an erection. He knew that was an issue of pride for a lot of people.

John leaned up and over him – he had to stretch a good distance, ha! – and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's exposed cheek. "It'll be alright," he murmured, his other hand still drawing nebulous shapes. "We don't need to do this if you don't want to. There's no hurry."

This was ridiculous. "I want to," Sherlock choked out. "Go ahead."

John nosed against Sherlock's face. "Then why won't you look at me, eh? Are you embarrassed?" He gently moved his leg higher between Sherlock's thighs, and Sherlock felt himself spread wider, more exposed. He closed his eyes.

"Hey," said John, and Sherlock felt him shifting, leaning over his side. John stroking his face now with the hand that had left his stomach. "Hey, look at me. Here I am. Look, Sherlock."

Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes, and looked. It was just _John_, who would not hurt him, John who would stop the instant Sherlock asked him to. Who would not mind if Sherlock reacted strangely - was probably expecting him to react strangely, in fact. John who was watching him, his expression fond. "There you are," he whispered, leaning forward to press a kiss to Sherlock's thin lips.

Sherlock didn't try to stop him, twisting his face back over his own shoulder so they could reach. He had discovered that he quite liked John's kisses, much to his own surprise.

When Sherlock tried to turn their bodies for a better angle for oral contact, John dropped a hand to his hip and held him in place. "Do you still want to try?" he asked, "or do you want to stop?"

Now Sherlock was wishing they could continue kissing, and forget about the other thing. Perhaps this was why people generally took time advancing through the steps of intimacy.

Was that what John meant when he had accused Sherlock of "missing some steps"?

Briefly, he considered stopping the experiment where it was - but he had been the one to initiate the contact, so he felt he should probably continue. He nodded, shyly.

"Alright, here," said John. With his lips pressing against the nape of Sherlock's neck, John slipped one hand down hip back, rubbing over the point where the ribs connected to his spine, feeling the ridges of his vertebrae under his skin. Sherlock shuddered, and then John's fingers were sliding into the crease between his buttocks, carefully spreading his cheeks apart. "I'm going to touch you here," said John. "Is this alright?"

Sherlock remained silent, hoping it would communicate his agreement.

At first John didn't do more than stroke into the damp, dark crevasse, moving slowly back and forth. Then one finger traced over the pucker of his anus, which clenched tight at the first touch. Sherlock huffed out a breath, frustrated; he needed his body to get on board with the plan, not confound the matter at every turn. This had been easier when he was nearly incoherent as a result of chemical intoxication.

But John didn't seem overly concerned. "S'alright," he murmured, just lightly moving his fingers around. "We'll get there. No hurry."

The feeling was strange. It wasn't a place that Sherlock necessarily enjoyed being touched, but it _was_ very sensitive; he could feel the pressure there as though his body could focus on nothing else.

John withdrew his fingers and, with his clean hand, turned Sherlock's face for another kiss; this one was languid and unhurried. He hummed quietly at the back of his throat and Sherlock felt it in his own mouth, along with his soft murmurs of encouragement and quiet groans of pleasure. Women had kissed him in the past – never men - but it was sloppy and unwanted and he had not enjoyed it. The only kisses he had ever liked, in fact, were the flowery ones that Mrs. Hudson planted on his cheek, which reminded him – in a vague, half-remembered way – of his mother's.

Inappropriate to be thinking of his mother or Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock recollected.

He turned his face into John's and was rewarded by the clean hand (Sherlock was very aware of which hand was which) burying itself in his hair, clenching and then relaxing around his curls. John pushed the black strands back behind his ears, traced over his sensitive earlobe, gave it a teasing tug. "So beautiful," he muttered.

The finger was back, slick now with the lubricant John had recovered from underneath the bed. Not pushing in, yet, just moving back and forth. "Does that feel okay?" he asked.

Sherlock wasn't sure how to respond. It felt like – pressure, applied digitally to his anus. Was that "okay"? Apparently John, having caught sight of his face, was satisfied even with his lack of response, because he bent forward to press a kiss to Sherlock's exposed shoulder.

"Here, now," he whispered, "just relax, take a nice deep breath and let it out, okay?"

At least he hadn't actually _said_, 'turn your head and cough.'

Then the finger went from moving in circles to sliding up slowly inside him.

Sherlock grunted, not at all sure how he felt about the feeling: it was as though John was clearing out a space for himself, making a place to crawl up into, and Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted that to happen. The finger was still moving steadily, pressing further and further in, and Sherlock felt himself beginning to panic (how far was John _going_?) as John kept him held in place, his knee pressed between Sherlock's thighs, his free hand rubbing at his hip.

The finger unerringly pressed against a spot on the inside wall of Sherlock's body, and Sherlock felt himself convulsing in response. _Doctor, of course_, Sherlock thought to himself vaguely, _would know how to find a prostate_.

"Alright?" At least John didn't sound smug or amused; he sounded concerned, and Sherlock appreciated that. He nodded, still pressing his face against the pillow, and pushed his hips back against John in a mute request to continue. But for a long time, John didn't go any further. He just gently moved that one finger in and out, using his other hand to grasp hold of Sherlock's half-hard cock. He didn't seem to be putting any pressure on Sherlock to get harder faster – just squeezed and tugged, as Sherlock felt the heat building in his groin. It was the confusion of wanting to thrust forward into John's fist, and also pull away from – or towards? – the finger burrowing inside of him. It was – startling, and overwhelming.

But John was there. John was watching him with adoring concentration, pressing quick, careful kisses to Sherlock's jaw, his neck, his exposed collarbone. "Nice and slow," he whispered.

It might be alright, thought Sherlock, as long as John continued to look at him like that.

A second finger pressed up easily inside of him and they began to move, twisting in a widening circle as Sherlock felt his muscles loosen at the pressure. He trusted John so he didn't protest against the additional invasion, although he wasn't sure how to describe the sensation, beyond _strange_. It was like – like itching, deep inside of himself, and like the pleasure of scratching an itch, too.

John continued, untiring, unfaltering. Now that he had committed himself, he was relentless, his entire concentration focused on Sherlock's slightest reaction. He made sure to brush against that place deep inside on every other stroke.

A few more minutes and Sherlock was trembling – actually _trembling_. "I'm ready," he said, through gritted teeth. "Do it."

"Another finger," John resisted. "Relax your bottom for me." Sherlock overlooked the childish language (clearly John had been practicing paediatrics at the clinic as of late) and concentrated on obeying his instructions – John had three fingers inside of him now, moving them slowly in and out. But as soon as he had the chance, he rolled himself laboriously over onto his stomach and raised his backside in the air.

"Now, John! I assure you, my rectum is sufficiently stretched."

John muttered and grumbled, but the hands stroking Sherlock's sides were reverent, trailing down to the vulnerable top of his thighs, where the skin – having never seen the sun - was soft and as pale as ivory.

"Lift your hips," he said.

Assuming he was finally stretched, loosened, and prepared to John's satisfaction, Sherlock pushed up onto his hands and knees at the guidance of John's hands, and submitted to having his knees spread wider and his buttocks gently parted, surprising himself with his own docility. He hadn't expected to like it this way.

For a second John's hands left him – he whipped his head around, to watch him applying a condom and an additional coating of lubricant to what appeared to be a rather painful erection. Sherlock looked down and discovered to his surprise that he was still quite hard himself, which was a somewhat unexpected occurrence.

"Deep breath," said John, pressing up warm and solid behind him, and reaching over to cup Sherlock's bollocks together, rolling them gently. With his other hand he guided his latex-covered erection carefully into Sherlock's body.

It was interesting to note that this sexual encounter was already significantly different than previously, despite the basic similarity of inserting an object – to wit, a phallus – into his anal canal. His last partner had performed essentially the same actions: positional manipulation (formerly, bent over a writing desk), then the application of some form of lubricant (on the condom, last time; digitally now), and finally the act of penetration itself. Although John's penis had some variation relative to Victor's - it was shorter and thicker, in Sherlock's recollection - the physical sensations of being lubricated and stretched should be about equivalent.

But the emotional differences were really quite striking. John was seemingly very preoccupied with visual contact; examining Sherlock's face, meeting his eyes, smiling at him, looking concerned and attentive as Sherlock adjusted to the stretch, looking affectionate and fond when Sherlock relaxed. To say nothing of verbal communication: asking if Sherlock was okay, did he want to continue, was this alright. Then there were the physical gestures of reassurance, the kissing, the stroking of Sherlock's back and buttocks, brushing the hair back from his forehead. His hands communicated as clearly as words. Last time the sex had been something which had happened _to_ him, for the purpose of someone else's pleasure. Now it was as if they working _together_ to get John inside him, as though Sherlock's participation and enjoyment were absolutely necessary.

It was evident that somehow this emotional aspect was an important component of the sexual experience: Sherlock was not sure he had properly appreciated this point before. Even though he was somewhat uncomfortable, his body tenser now than it had been when he was experiencing the effects of narcotics, still the sensations were - well. They were different. The awareness of the slick tip of John's penis sliding into him slowly felt a lot different when John's other hand was smoothing over Sherlock's back, and his eyes were fixed on Sherlock's, and he was whispering encouragement and praise. It felt ... it felt alright. Not bad. Pretty good.

There was a slight burning – John's penis was not bigger than his fingers had prepared for, but it was more solid and more continuously thick – and Sherlock barely choked back a tight groan, which had John immediately bringing his face up to Sherlock's, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his cheek and his temple, whispering soothingly. "Alright, it's alright, I've got you, shsh." He locked an arm around Sherlock's waist to hold him still as he inched forwards, easing himself inside. Sherlock imagined he could feel his organs shifting around to accommodate him.

Then with a final push John was all the way inside, as deep as he could go, and they were entirely joined. Sherlock shifted, trying to get a sense of the sensation, clenching down a few times to feel the thickness of John inside of him. John was patient, unmoving, one hand clamped to Sherlock's hip, which throbbed faintly - the distant echo of an ache. "There we go," he said, "that's it, there we go. Alright. Are you ready? I'm going to start to move."

Sherlock found that he could not quite form a reply, but at his somewhat shaky nod, John began to shift. He pulled out, slowly, inch by inch, adjusting the angle slightly before pushing back in, so _deep_ that it seemed like Sherlock felt it in his stomach.

He swallowed hard, not sure what he was feeling: was this pleasure, he wasn't sure. It was a lot to process, and Sherlock barely had enough to realize that they _had done it; this was it, what he had been waiting for_, before John was moving again, out like an exhale of breath, and then _in_ with a thrust that drove all the air out of his body. Sherlock was barely doing more than bracing himself against the force. He moaned, softly, but not in pain.

"Look at you," John whispered, "look at you, _look_, Sherlock." An endless stream of mindless words. John was all around him, a hot line pressed against his back, one hand moving over Sherlock's side, one reaching to coax his cock into fullness, his mouth pressed to Sherlock's neck, stretching up to reach his lips when Sherlock turned, kissing and nipping at his ear when he could reach it. Pressing firmly against that place inside him with every stroke.

It was this feeling of being utterly surrounded that reminded Sherlock of his dream of drowning, helpless to do anything but feel the pressure and the pleasure racing through him, as if he were actually depending on John for air.

He could feel himself getting close, and it was different than Sherlock had thought, harder to ignore, it was _frightening_ –

And then John reached up to slide his fingers around Sherlock's, interlacing them tightly, and gave a squeeze. Sherlock felt the heat racing up his body and he came with a grunt, with John's hand like an anchor, holding him tight.

.


	8. Chapter 8

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**Dangerous Assumptions**

**Chapter Eight**

_._

_A/N: Obviously, since I started this series before the new episodes, it may not fit perfectly with the Season Two canon (particularly in the portrayal of Mycroft, I notice). What can you do?_

_. _

_._

After the first time, they didn't have sex again for two weeks.

Sherlock kept expecting John to bring it up – perhaps insist on his _husbandly rights_, or whatever the appropriate term would be – but in fact he seemed perfectly content to wait, as though this was a completely normal and expected state of affairs.

Every evening he brushed his teeth next to Sherlock in the loo, their hips bumping companionably together, interrupted by the occasional skirmish over the use of the sink. And every night he slept curled around Sherlock like a vine – he was terribly clingy in bed – demurely dressed in grey striped flannel pajamas. Which stayed firmly in place. In the mornings he woke up first and slipped out of bed to make beans on toast and do the crossword.

It was very odd.

At the outset Sherlock had actually been pleased: physical intimacy had been even more overwhelming than he'd anticipated, and he'd wanted some time to consider the experience. It was hardly a hardship for him to go a few weeks without sex, having previously abstained for years.

But as days passed, Sherlock found himself increasingly sidetracked by the shape of John's rather well-rounded bum when he leaned over to reach into the cupboard under the sink. Or the smell of his bergamot-scented breath after his morning tea. And yet, even when Sherlock crowded in close behind him at the sink, John didn't press back against him to bring their bodies together, and when they were lying in bed together, and Sherlock brought his face conveniently close to John's mouth, John didn't close the distance and kiss him.

Sherlock didn't quite understand. John had enjoyed himself, the night they had had sex – Sherlock was certain of it, had incontrovertible proof, in fact – and yet he seemed to have virtually no interest in a repeat performance. Surely that was not that usual state of things?

Could there be something amiss, something Sherlock had failed to detect? This was not his area of expertise, so it was possible. Were they having a fight that he was unaware of?

But John didn't _seem_ angry. He seemed as affectionate, as accommodating as ever. He had made Sherlock tea, in the exact way he liked it, twice that morning already. He would say something if he was upset, wouldn't he?

As there were no interesting cases at the time – having recently murdered the architect of the most intelligent crimes in London, Sherlock despaired of there ever being a truly interesting case again – he had no vent for these feelings, other than a series of rather violent experiments into the properties of elemental sodium, particularly how it could be made to explode in a shower of sparks.

As the second week drew to a close, he went through his closet to find the items he felt were particularly attractive: rich, deep colors, which he had been told brought out his skin tone, and anything either very loose or very tight (dressing gown, extremely close-fitting jeans) to suggest and encourage any thoughts of disrobing him.

He made up an outfit that he thought was especially appealing, and went to slouch elegantly against the doorframe into the kitchen, where John was rummaging through one of the drawers.

"Have we got any brillo pads?" John inquired, seemingly indifferent to his flat mate's allure.

Sherlock flashed his very best bedroom eyes, impossible to resist. "Haven't the foggiest," he drawled.

"Right. I suppose I'm off to the store, then." John brushed past him on his way out, reaching up to pat his shoulder in a decidedly not-suggestive way. "Try not to blow anything up until I'm back, eh?"

... Perhaps not _entirely_ impossible to resist.

Undeterred, Sherlock arranged himself sprawled across the settee, loose-limbed and indolent, head dropping back over the armrest. One foot on the floor for balance, the other folded up among the cushions, guiding the eye to the wide-spread v of his hips, inviting someone to perhaps settle into that welcome cradle. He made sure that the neckline of his sumptuous silk shirt gapped obscenely, exposing his torso to the naval if John would merely glance down at the right angle.

To complete the tableau – artfully staged in a convenient sunbeam, directly in sight of the front door – for John's viewing pleasure, he directed his mind to peaceful meditation, relaxing his features until they were innocently smooth, an expression he believed John particularly preferred.

Unfortunately, he succeeded at this perhaps too well, because he was suddenly aware of John's hands, smoothing an atrocious purple knitted afghan (gift from Mrs. Hudson; soon to be destroyed in a sodium-related ignition incident) over his shoulders.

Clearly some time had elapsed: he must have fallen asleep.

"You looked cold." John whispered, tucking the horrible blanket more closely around him. His knuckles just brushed over the line of Sherlock's cheek. "Have a good nap."

_Utter failure_.

Sherlock dozed off again reflecting that his talent for seduction had clearly fallen by the wayside over the past few years.

Hours later, standing in the shower at the end of the day, Sherlock pictured John's steady, calloused hands moving over his skin, and scowled down at his stupidly rising cock.

The damn thing had a mind of its own, always wanting more contact from John, more demonstration of his affection. It was ridiculous, like he suddenly had no control of it. He got out of the shower and tried to will the erection away, the way he had always done in the past, but it _insisted _– it wanted John, the one who rightfully understood it.

Finally Sherlock wrapped himself in a towel and stalked down to the living room, where John was reading a medical journal on the settee. "Are you going to deal with this?" he demanded.

John looked up. "Sorry, deal with what? Oh." He was looking at the bulge in Sherlock's towel. "Er, now?"

"Yes. Rather."

John looked up into Sherlock's face, obviously trying to read something in his expression. Sherlock uncomfortably shifted on his feet, the unwanted, rejected erection still jutting hopefully out.

Whatever John was looking for, he seemed to find it. "Right, then," he said, tugging away the towel and letting it drop it on the floor. Sherlock stood, fully exposed, directly in front of the great window. "Come here, you."

Sherlock didn't move. His cock jumped, pointing right at John like an arrow, like a witness identifying a perpetrator – _him, he's the one!_

So John slid out of the seat and knee-walked forwards, taking hold of his hips like handles. "Let's see, then," he muttered, thoughtfully.

Warm, wet. Sherlock closed his eyes, and clenched his hands into fists so that the fingernails dug into the base of his palms. Let his head drop back to the ceiling, hanging so heavy from his neck. Felt his heart rate accelerate.

"Stop!" he said.

To his credit, John immediately did. "Sherlock?"

Panting, Sherlock looked down at John, who was fully clothed in front of him, face squashing up into irritated confusion.

"Look, I'm sorry, Sherlock, but it's not as if I have the slightest idea what I'm doing – not really looking for a _critique_ here, thanks."

He leaned back in again, and Sherlock staggered back a step, breaking John's hold – he would have toppled forwards if he hadn't regained balance with a hand on the carpet. "Sherlock? What – "

This was exactly what he had wanted, what he had fantasized about, from the beginning. He was the one who had asked for it!

But still, Sherlock backed up another step. "I've … I …"

There were no words. Sherlock clenched his teeth.

"It's alright." John reached out slowly to stroke his side, like he would do to settle a fidgety horse. "It's alright, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered, twisting away to stalk off into the bedroom.

Twenty minutes later, John came in, dressed in the grey flannels. Sherlock was still naked, in bed, swaddled up in the sheets. His erection had long since passed, unsatisfied.

He listened to the sounds of John puttering around the room: taking off his watch, to leave it on the side table. Putting his slippers in the closet. Walking to the wall switch to turn off the light. Walking to the bed.

Hands found Sherlock's shoulder and urged him onto his back, and then John was climbing on top of him, easily fitting between his thighs, moving steadily upwards until they were nose to nose.

"Hello," said John, leaning forwards to carefully kiss him.

Sherlock blinked.

"We don't have to do that, if you don't want to," said John. "Or we can do it again, but in a different way, or whatever you like. You say the word, okay?"

"Okay," said Sherlock.

"Good." John let himself drop forwards, until he was resting entirely on Sherlock's chest. He nudged his head under Sherlock's chin. "Then let's go to sleep, eh?"

Cautiously, Sherlock wrapped one arm around his middle, accepting the weight of him; John was heavy, but there wasn't enough of him to present much of a burden.

"Night," he muttered.

* * *

><p>The next morning Sherlock woke before John, and found them curled up together as usual, John's head on his shoulder, one hand resting rather possessively on Sherlock's backside. Sherlock had the sheet tangled around his legs, having apparently taken all the covers in the night.<p>

"John," he whispered.

Blearily, John's eyes opened – foggy blue, and still glassy with sleep. "Wha?"

Sherlock leaned in and pressed their mouths together, licking John's dry lips for him and tasting the stale, sour hint of morning breath.

John allowed it for a moment, then turned his head to the side in order to breathe. "Good morning," he said. "Might want to let me brush my teeth."

But Sherlock followed his mouth and kissed him again, deeper this time, more determined, rolling himself on top of John, their hips roughly aligned. John didn't protest against the position, settling on his back underneath him.

Sherlock shifted until their cocks were together – Sherlock half-hard the way he woke up some times, John not particularly erect that he could tell – and ground down. One of John's knees came up to bracket him, not objecting, merely accommodating Sherlock's advances. He raised one hand to stroke the hair back from Sherlock's face, letting it drift over his cheek before moving to the back of his neck.

Sherlock leaned forward to bite his lower lip, hard. John grunted, his fingers flexing in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock drew back, breathless.

He looked down at John, sleep-rumpled and looking quite debauched, his lips pink and swollen with kisses. Now he could feel what he was pretty sure was John's cock, stiffening under the layers of flannel.

John lifted his head to reach for another kiss, but Sherlock shifted minutely back, holding his position.

There was a long pause, and then he sat all the way up.

John blinked, wiggled a little, and, getting no response, dropped back against the bed, wheezing.

"Right," he said, closing his eyes and counting mentally to ten (Sherlock could see his lips, faintly forming the outline of each number). "Okay," he said, when he had finished. "Probably time to start the day, yeah?" He rolled out from under Sherlock and climbed out of the bed, presumably to hunt down the paper and get started on breakfast.

Alone in the room, Sherlock flopped over onto his back and waited. Seventeen seconds for John to get down the stairs, twenty-three accounting for the slight limp of his erection. Another fifty-three to locate the kettle, which was in the living room. Five to start the stove.

He waited a full thirty minutes, mapping out every one of John's actions in his head, before rolling out of bed. He slid into his dressing gown, being sure not to set off any creeks in the floor (weight evenly distributed between load-bearing beams). Then he moved soundlessly down the stairs with the ease of long experience, pausing midflight where there was a view of the kitchen through the rungs of the bannister.

John was humming and waiting for the toaster to finish. Sherlock held his breath to listen;_ Pirates of Penzance_.

Sherlock crouched down on the step to observe further, the back of John's head dipping in and out of his field of vision.

What was he thinking, in that tiny hamster-wheel inside his head? Surely he must know that Sherlock was being a prat, but instead of commenting on it, he _was the very model of a modern Major-General … _

His phone vibrated from its spot in the pocket of his dressing gown. Sherlock reached in a hand to extract it, glancing surreptitiously at the screen.

_- I can see you watching me – JW_

Sherlock allowed himself a very small smile.

-_ Stop lurking & come eat. – JW_

So he stalked into the kitchen and dropped dramatically into a chair. "I'm not having beans on toast," he announced.

John put a bowl in front of his own place and went back for tea. "Luckily for you, it's porridge."

Porridge. That was alright. Sherlock could probably stomach a few bites of that, if it was spiced the way he liked it (cinnamon; raisins; honey; a _very small_ amount of cream) and served at the correct temperature (hot enough that steam rose from the surface in lazy swirls).

Sherlock slid John's bowl over to himself, stirring it with John's spoon to dispel the film that had developed on the surface. Before John turned back from the stove, he quickly swallowed a spoonful.

It was salty and thick, sliding down his throat to settle in his stomach, warming. Yes, temperature correct; cinnamon, raisins, honey. Too much cream. Interesting to note that John typically preferred his porridge with dried apricots and skim milk.

"You're not angry with me," Sherlock observed, aloud.

John came back with a second bowl. "What?"

"Gilbert and Sullivan, not Bizet. Oolong instead of Earl Grey. Extra cream in the porridge, trying to fatten me up: you're not angry with me."

"Excellently deduced." John reached for toast.

"And yet I've been particularly infuriating, just lately." He paused. "Starting things and not finishing them."

John appeared to be contemplating his apricot jam. Sherlock knew that he sometimes used mundane activities as a pretext to gather his thoughts, so he remained silent.

"I'm not angry," said John softly.

"Why not."

"I understand that you've been – testing me," John said. "Not consciously, perhaps, but I think you wanted to see if it was safe."

"Ridiculous," said Sherlock.

"It's alright," John said. "You can test me all you like." He inched one hand across the table until it bumped up against Sherlock's. "You can trust me, Sherlock," he said, stroking Sherlock's index finger with his thumb. "But I don't mind if you want to run some experiments first. I wouldn't expect anything less."

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He looked down at the table, the cooling bowl of porridge, their disparate hands.

John cleared his throat. "We don't ever have to have sex again, if you don't want," he said, neutrally. "We can go on just as we are, whichever parts of it you like. I don't mind. I mean – " he grimaced. "I _mind_, obviously I do, but. I don't. I won't - leave you for it. Alright?"

Sherlock kept quiet. But he did notice each of the muscles in his body, one by one, relaxing slowly.

"Tea?" asked John, pouring him a cup.

* * *

><p>They did have sex again. Many times, as it turned out. They investigated various acts and positions, some of which had a rather rocky start at the beginning, most of which improved with experience.<p>

It was fortunate that Sherlock didn't require John to provide him with mystery and excitement (that was what criminal classes were for): John wouldn't have presented much of a challenge. There was nothing unexpected about him, nothing that Sherlock didn't already know. He was just solid and familiar, all the way through.

It was never difficult to understand what John liked or what he wanted: he liked and wanted _Sherlock._

What was strange was that Sherlock found this stability somehow satisfying - something like having a strong, flexible springboard to bounce off of. Something like having cool, deep water to land in.

He realized he was lucky to have gotten away with hiding some of his earlier – shall we call them shenanigans? – from John, and he didn't want to push his luck now. So he didn't protest against John's insistence that Sherlock, instead of being caught in a spiral of existential angst over the _utter meaningless of life among creatures too stupid to ever comprehend his brilliance,_ just needed to be fed and settled on the couch, with his feet on John's lap, to watch crap tellie or a movie in which things exploded – and somehow against John's warm hands rubbing his thigh, and the hot tea which John cheerfully poured down his throat, and the nap that John eventually coaxed him into, Sherlock had no defense.

His willingly-offered affection was like a soothing balm on Sherlock's irritated nerves.

John had a habit of focusing on the physical, the primitive, the woodland creature in Sherlock's belly, completely shortcutting the genius brain in his human skull. And somehow, with his transport safely left in John's hands - John would see to it; he understood its needs and desires far better than Sherlock had ever understood them himself - Sherlock was finally free to just _think_, not stymied by the millions of small concerns that pestered him relentlessly.

Some days it still seemed inconceivable, that he, Sherlock Holmes, could be content with a man like John: rather ordinary, merely dependable – merely patient and kind and _good_. Sherlock would not have believed himself capable of sustaining the emotion. To think of the odd little boy he had been, or the cold and callous teenager – or even the spiteful, arrogant man he became … it was all very unlikely.

And yet, the evidence was certainly there: John had become his first thought in the morning and was usually his last remembrance at the end of the day, month after month, year after year.

He hesitated to use the word _love_ – it seemed entirely clichéd, completely improbable.

But it was impossible to deny his own affections. Impossible to claim that they were anything less than sincere and enduring.

So he supposed, when you eliminated the impossible, whatever remained (however clichéd and improbable it was) must certainly be - the truth.

**FIN**

**.**

_There is one last "deleted scene" from this series, _Speedball_. Other than that, I can't believe it but I'm actually finished! Thank you so much to everybody who read or reviewed - I really appreciate hearing from you. _

_All the best ~ Cora._

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